Myron's head sank. "I deserve it all, you know," she said. "I——"
"You've no call to kill yourself," retorted Homer hotly. "Mrs. Deans is an old wretch, and your grandmother's a——"
"She's good to my baby," said Myron, checking his speech with a gesture. He recalled the child's existence, and, moved by an odd impulse, said gently:
"How is your child, Myron?"
She glanced at him with a gratitude so intense that he flushed and moved uneasily—as one accredited with a worthy deed he has not done.
"Oh, so well," she said. "He——" She paused, her face flaming. "Oh, do go——"
"Let me carry that pailful for you?" he asked, hesitatingly.
"No—no—do go!" she returned.
Both were now painfully constrained and eager to be alone.
"Well, I may as well be going, then," said Homer; and turning, made toward the gap in the fence, through which he had entered the garden. Once on the street, he quickly ran across the two streets of the village, and made his way through the fields, reaching his own barns just as his mother came to the kitchen door. She was looking toward the village, and saying shrilly to her husband: