"But under the law—"
"There's nothing can make this thing right except paying every cent we owe. I ain't a-goin' to have it said that my children—that I'm livin' on somebody else. If you don't pay these debts, I will. I've thought it all out. If you don't stay and face it, and pay these men, I won't own you as my husband. I loved and trusted you, Jim—I thought you was honorable—it's been a terrible blow—but I've decided it all in my mind."
She conquered her little weakness, and went on to the end firmly. Her face looked pale. There was a square look about the mouth and chin. The iron resolution and Puritanic strength of her father, old John Foreman, had come to the surface. Her look and tone mastered the man, for he loved her deeply.
She had set him a hard task, and when he rose and went down the street he walked with bent head, quite unlike his usual self.
There were not many men on the street. It seemed earlier than it was, for it was a raw, cold morning, promising snow. The sun was completely masked in a seamless dust-gray cloud. He met Vance with a brown parcel (beefsteak for breakfast) under his arm.
"Hello, Jim! How are ye, so early in the morning?"
"Blessed near used up."
"That so? What's the matter?"
"I d'know," said Jim, listlessly. "Bilious, I guess. Headache—stomach bad."
"Oh! Well, now, you try them pills I was tellin' you of."