"It's right—it's natural—'tis all we can give Him—our thanks and worship."
"Then take my hand, Daniel, and say I've cleared this cloud. Don't make my sad life sadder by going out of it. Don't say I may not sometimes see and speak with Mrs. Brendon. If you had a beautiful and rare flower in your garden, you would not deny other people the sight of it. 'Tis a parallel case every way. She is a remarkable woman, full of high qualities. I ask you to be my close friend henceforth, Brendon. It would seem a strange thing for a master to ask of his man. Yet I do it. Prout is my friend and I want you too, because you are much more to me than good old John, or any other man on earth."
He stopped and coughed, then rose, took a wisp of paper from a china jar, and re-lighted his pipe.
Brendon did not speak. Woodrow's words troubled him at one moment, gratified him at the next; now the farmer said a thing that made him start, and, before he had grasped it, the quick, nervous voice passed on and uttered some word that could not fail to soften his heart.
"Say you'll stop, Dan," continued Hilary Woodrow. "Say you'll stop, before I come to my affair. 'Twill spoil all if you cleave to this determination. 'Twill make the thing I have plotted all dust and ashes. Yet I won't influence you with it. I won't influence you save to say this: I'm not going to be in the land of the living more than a few years at best; but you'll cloud those years for me, Daniel, if you go; and as sure as your God's watching you to-day, you'll be sorry afterwards, if you stick to this determination."
He turned to the window, and smoked and looked out into the little street.
For a minute or two neither spoke. Then Brendon bent for his hat, picked it up, and rose.
"Since you put it that way, and say so solemnly that 'tis in my power to better your life by stopping, then I'll stop, master. Don't think I wanted to go, but for what I told you. 'Twas the only thing in the world that would have took me. But since 'tis false, I'll spurn it. My God's Self's a jealous God, but—there 'tis—I'll fight to be large-minded—I'll stop——"
Woodrow did not speak, but his eyes were damp when he turned from the window and came back to the table. A strange conflict of emotions filled his spirit, choked his throat, seethed upward to his brain, and sunk downward to his heart. His admiration and even affection for Daniel were genuine enough at that moment; and he rejoiced at the thing that he was about to do. But not for an instant did he mourn the thing that he had done.
He could not speak immediately.