"Tell me," he urged; "tell me, and be he far or near, high or low, I will bring him to you."
"I cannot tell you," she repeated. Then for once moved beyond her self-control, "Oh, that I could!"
"Why can't you?" he asked hotly. "It is but common justice—let him bear his part."
"I promised," she replied simply, regaining her calm, the momentary glow of impatience dying out of her voice.
"Promised!" he echoed. "What's a promise given to him worth? Nothing—absolutely nothing. Promised! He did some fine promising, I dare swear. A promise to him!"
"I promised," she said again; then pushing back her head a little that she might look him in the face (for she was hardly of the common height of women), she went on: "I promised, and I will keep my promise; he will come, and I can wait." In an instant her head sank. Her own words had brought before her a terrible mirage of what that waiting meant. He let fall her hands, and stepped back a pace. The action seemed to break the bond that had held at bay the memory of the world. Constraint fell upon Homer Wilson, and Myron's face burned in the dusky light.
"Did you want anything?" she asked in uncertain tones.
"No," he answered. "I saw your light from the window at home, and I came to see what work was going on so early."
"I always do what I can before I go to Mrs. Deans'," she said; "this is wash-day."
"You will kill yourself," he cried angrily. "What's your grandmother thinking of?"