"You must go, Joel," said Barbara.
Must he? He thought of the great roads of the world leading into the Unknown. He thought of them with distaste. He did not want adventure: he wanted money. He felt no thrill at the idea of fighting his way up to success; he was a gentleman, and all that he desired was the means to live as such. If he went it would be because he had no other hope.
That which he had before wished was now coming to pass. By the irony of fate he was being forced in a direction which he had no inclination to travel. He thought of Lucy sleeping in the room over the rafters—of her dusky hair, red lips, closed eyes—eyes so bright that he had often called them his guiding stars; must he leave them, leave all those charms that belonged to him, which she gave him freely and without stint?
"I'll go," he said suddenly, "I'll go, but I'll take Lucy with me."
"Lucy'll stay where she is," replied the old woman sharply.
Barbara strode forward, with a steady fire burning in her eyes, and an august lift of her head. She laid a firm hand on the young man's shoulder and made him look at her.
"Joel Hart," she said, "is your love a true love?"
"Before God, it is," he said solemnly.
"And you seek her happiness?"
"Above everything."