"It would make them uncomfortable—they are very old-fashioned in their views. I don't know just how to put it, but it seems to them—oh, a terrible thing for a husband and wife to live apart."
"Well, I shan't speak of it, of course—but would it not be better for me to return immediately to Tappahannock?"
For an instant she hesitated. "It would be very dreadful at Mrs. Twine's."
"I know it," he answered, "but I'm ready to go back, this minute if you should prefer it."
"But I shouldn't," she rejoined in her energetic manner. "Why should I, indeed? It is much wiser for you to stay here until the end of the summer."
When she had finished he looked at her a moment without replying. The light had grown very faint and through the thin mist that floated up from the fields her features appeared drawn and pallid.
"What I can't make you understand is that even though it is all my fault—every bit my fault from the beginning—yet I have never really wanted to do evil in my heart. Though I've done wrong, I've always wanted to do right."
If she heard his words they made little impression upon her, for going out into the walk, she started, without speaking, in the direction of the house. Then, when she had moved a few steps from him, she stopped and looked back as if she had forgotten something that had been in her thoughts.
"I meant to tell you that I hope—I pray it will come right again," she said.
"I thank you," he answered, and drew back into the corn so that she might go on alone.