"Leave me?" she echoed.
He made a hurried effort to soften the words.
"I'd oughtn't to said it," he said. "It was kinder keerless. Thet thar—it's a long way off—mebbe—an' I'd oughtn't to hev said it. It's a way old folks hev—but it's a bad way. Things git to seem sorter near to 'em—an' ordinary."
The whole day had been to Louisiana a slow approach to a climax. Sometimes when her father talked she could scarcely bear to look at his face as the firelight shone on it.
So, when she had bidden him good-night at last and walked to the door leaving him standing upon the hearth watching her as she moved away, she turned round suddenly and faced him again, with her hand upon the latch.
"Father," she cried, "I want to tell you—I want to tell you——"
"What?" he said. "What, Louisianny?"
She put her hand to her side and leaned against the door—a slender, piteous figure.
"Don't look at me kindly," she said. "I don't deserve it. I deserve nothing. I have been ashamed——"
He stopped her, putting up his shaking hand and turning pale.