For a while Charity was silent, and her companion did not speak. She looked timidly at his profile: it was graver than usual, as though he too were oppressed by what they had seen. Then she broke out abruptly: “Those people back there are the kind of folks I come from. They may be my relations, for all I know.” She did not want him to think that she regretted having told him her story.
“Poor creatures,” he rejoined. “I wonder why they came down to that fever-hole.”
She laughed ironically. “To better themselves! It's worse up on the Mountain. Bash Hyatt married the daughter of the farmer that used to own the brown house. That was him by the stove, I suppose.”
Harney seemed to find nothing to say and she went on: “I saw you take out a dollar to give to that poor woman. Why did you put it back?”
He reddened, and leaned forward to flick a swamp-fly from the horse's neck. “I wasn't sure——”
“Was it because you knew they were my folks, and thought I'd be ashamed to see you give them money?”
He turned to her with eyes full of reproach. “Oh, Charity——” It was the first time he had ever called her by her name. Her misery welled over.
“I ain't—I ain't ashamed. They're my people, and I ain't ashamed of them,” she sobbed.
“My dear...” he murmured, putting his arm about her; and she leaned against him and wept out her pain.
It was too late to go around to Hamblin, and all the stars were out in a clear sky when they reached the North Dormer valley and drove up to the red house.