“I’ll never see her again, Granny,” said David Joslin quietly. “But—now you ask me why I’m not a preacher—that’s why.”
Silence fell now in the little cabin, so agonized was he. The old woman nodded her head slowly.
“I’m going away now, Granny,” he continued at last “I’ve hurt Meliss’ mightily, and I’m sorry. I sinned, and I was to blame for it, not she, and I know that clear enough—she didn’t know any better. I’ve made nothing but trouble all my life, for myself most of all. Sometimes it’s hard to stand.”
“That’s right, Davy,” said his old granddam, nodding. “Yore way is a-goin’ to be right hard, I kin see that. Ye got a heap of troubles, one thing with another.”
“Well,” said he after a time. “It’s no use my hanging around. I’m going back.”
“Goin’ back!” shrilled the old dame, in her toothless mirthfulness. “We’ll look fer ye some day—but ye go on back now to that other womern. French-Irish!—she’ll be givin’ ye the slip if ye don’t watch out!”
“I’m not going back to her,” said David Joslin. “I told you that was done. I’m not coming back here, either.”
“Huh!” commented his wrinkled ancestress. “Here ye was with three wimmern on yore hands afore ye was thirty year old—Meliss’ an’ them two others! Well, I’ve heerd tell of mounting boys that has went Outside an’ made their fortunes an’ come back.—Ye been right busy, one way of speakin’.”
Her grandson only stared at her, mute.
“As fer Meliss’,” she added maliciously, “the Lord has gave an’ the law has took away. I don’t put it a-past her to marry agin—the lawyer man tolt her she could if she liked an’ could find ary man’d take her. She’s powerful homely now.”