"Certainly not," he replied. "I love the road."
He seemed to think this sufficient explanation. But Nance was a trifle puzzled.
"A preacher who loves the road," and she shook her head doubtfully. "If you love it, why don't you follow it then?" She seemed to think that this was sufficient proof that at least he loved but little.
"Why don't you follow it?" she repeated with a touch of conclusiveness, as if no more could be said upon the subject. "St. Francis did.... I love it and I have chosen it. The road is my religion," here she looked up with a suggestion of defiance in her eyes as if anticipating his disapproval, but, upon seeing nothing save interest upon his face, she continued, "My camp-fires at night are a flaming offering upon his altar, the earth, to Pan.... Why don't you take the road?"
Nance was unconsciously posing a trifle.
"It calls me strongly sometimes," he replied, and his eyes became tender and sought the soft shadowy highway through the growing night. The wander-longing was in his face.... Then, quickly recalling himself, he exclaimed:
"Besides I have my work to do! It could not be done on the road.... At least," he hastily corrected, "I could not do the task I have planned for myself." There was a simple, unconscious note of courage in his voice.
"Why?" asked Nance in wonder.
"There are many and profound reasons. It would not prove pleasant to speak of them. But for one of the least: Do you think," said he, "that vagabondia would mix with the average conventional church community?"
"Become the pastor of vagabondia," she suggested, smiling.