They were within a half of a mile of Oldmeadow when Jean François called a halt to his happy caravan. They drew up beneath a tree by the roadside. Whether Nance realized it or not, the pedler knew it to be the end. A week ago he would have laughed in derision had he been told that he would have taken anything so seriously, so painfully, as he now was, after this joyous lark, at the parting of the ways.
"Sit down, Nance."
She obeyed, without protest or interest, as an indifferent child.
"Nance, my little sister," said he, "we'll soon be home."
"Will we?" She could not see any use in lingering, now that the joy was all gone. She wished to hurry through the agony of the end and the sooner reach the adjustment which she thought would restore the old-time happiness. Why should he care to stop and tell her such painfully self-evident facts.... The sympathy which Jean François expected was not forthcoming.
"I've been thinking a great deal to-day," said he, "about the parson we had at camp the other evening."
"I thought that was all settled last night," she exclaimed in surprise.
"No, it is not, Nance. At least not yet.... He was right, I tell you. For him, in his work and his home lay his task and his happiness. There was the better part. He understood the road. His love of it made you his sister, me his brother. He will always be kinder, gentler, and purer of soul, Nance, because he knows the wander-longing. Yet it would be wrong for him to follow the patter an.... I see it all. He is right. And O, the tenderness in his eyes."
"Yes," came disinterestedly from Nance, "he's right."
"It's best!" exclaimed Jean François, a trifle hurt at no more evidence of understanding.