"Why don't he come home if he's sick?" he asked. "He could rest up down here an'—an' mebby that'd git him on his feet ag'in."
"He doesn't like to give up, that's all. You know how brave and true he is, 'Gene. It would be awful to come back here and admit that—that he couldn't get along up there. O, I wish he would come back, I wish he would come back," she wailed, breaking down completely. The tears forced themselves through the fingers that were pressed to her eyes.
"God A'mighty, how she loves him," groaned Crawley to himself. In this moment the big blasphemer of other days loved her more deeply than ever before in his dark, hopeless life. "Couldn't you—you write an' tell him to come down here fer a couple of weeks or—or a month?" he stammered, after a moment of thought.
"He wouldn't come, 'Gene, he wouldn't come," she sobbed. "He said he would not give up until he had made a home for me up there. When he came the last time he was discouraged, but—but he got over it and—and—Oh, I wish he would write to me! The suspense is killing me."
Crawley had turned his back and was leaning against the fence.
"He needs me, 'Gene," she said; "he needs me to cheer him on. I ought to be with him up there."
He started sharply and turned to her. She was looking into his eyes, and her hands were half lifted toward him.
"He is so lonely and I'm sure he is sick. I must go to him—I must. That's what I want to talk to you about. How am I to go to him? What shall I do? I can't bear it any longer. My place is with him."
"If he ain't got a job, Justine, you'll—you'll be——"
"You want to say that I'll be a burden to him, that's it, isn't it? But I'll work for him. I'll do anything. If he's sick, I'll wash and iron and sew and scrub and—oh, anything. I've been thinking about it since last night, and you must not consider me foolish when I tell you what I want to do. I want to borrow some money on the place."