‘I hear you are behindhand with your wool,’ she said, in her straightforward way. ‘I will spin it for you if you like, and, Deacon, may I ask you as a favour to let me have the money in advance?’
The deacon looked at her curiously.
‘Hard up, air ye, Pawliney? Well, well, don’t colour up so, we all hev our scarce times. I ain’t partial to payin’ forehanded, but you was awful kind to Mis’ Croaker when her rheumatiz was bad on her, an’ I ain’t one ter forgit a favour. Cum in, Pawliney, while I git the money. Mis’ Croaker will be rale pleased; she thinks you’re the best spinner in the valley.’
‘No, thank you, I will wait out here.’
The old man hobbled into the house, and she stood waiting, clothed in her sorrow and shame.
‘So Lemuel’s ben an’ tuk French leave?’ he said, as he handed her the money. ‘Well, well, I allers did say that boy’d be a heart break tew ye, Pawliney. Well, what’s gone’s forgot. Don’t fret over him, Pawliney, he was a bad lot, a bad lot. Ye’er well rid of him, my dear.’
‘I never shall forget him,’ Pauline said gravely, ‘and he can’t get away from God, Deacon Croaker.’
She counted the bills as she hurried along. It would just make enough, with the butter money. That was all she had for clothes for herself and Polly—but Polly had enough for a while, and she could go without.
In the evenings, long after the others were in bed, she paced up and down the kitchen, spinning Deacon Croaker’s wool into smooth, even threads, but her heart ached as she prayed for her boy, and often, when in the still watches of the night Polly kept her vigils with pain, she heard her cry softly:—
‘Lemuel, Lemuel, oh! how could you, how could you do it?’