“Move!” we both exclaimed. “Goin' out in the fields to work ag'in,” he added, cheerfully.
After a glance at our faces, he added: “I ain't afraid. It's all goin' t' be fair an' square. If we couldn't meet them we loved, an' do fer 'em, it wouldn't be honest. We'd all feel as if we'd been kind o' cheated. Suthin' has always said to me: 'Eb Holden, when ye git through here yer goin' t' meet them ye love.' Who do ye s'pose it was that spoke t' me? I couldn't tell ye, but somebody said it, an' whoever 'tis He says the same thing to most ev'ry one in the world.”
“It was the voice of Nature,” I suggested.
“Call it God er Natur' er what ye
please—fact is it's built into us an' is a part of us jest as the beams are a part o' this house. I don't b'lieve it was put there fer nuthin. An' it wa'n'. put there t' make fools of us nuther. I tell ye, Bill, this givin' life fer death ain't no hoss-trade. If ye give good value, ye're goin' to git good value, an' what folks hev been led to hope an' pray fer since Love come into the world, they're goin' to have—sure.”
He went to Hope and put a tiny locket in her hand. Beneath its panel lay a ringlet of hair, golden-brown.
“It was give to me,” he said, as he stood looking down at her. “Them little threads o' gold is kind o' wove all into my life. Sixty year ago I begun to spin my hope with 'em. It's grow-in' stronger an' stronger. It ain't