It was so dark in the shop that when Mrs. Barrows, carrying a lantern, opened the door she could not at first find Ambrose. And afterward, when he did come toward her and her light fell full upon his face, to Susan's eternal credit let it be set down that she turned away her eyes.
"You come along home, Ambrose Thompson," she began sternly; "ain't I been watchin' and waitin' for you to go by to your supper these past two hours? It's mighty nigh time I was gittin' to bed and I ain't able to sleep less'n my mind's easy."
Taking the man by the arm she led him toward home, talking in a tone that few persons had ever heard from Susan. "Whatever's happened to you to-day, Ambrose Thompson, don't you be scaired," she said once. "I tell you it's the folks that things never happen to that ought to be scaired, 'cause you're livin' and they ain't." And then when Ambrose would have left her at her gate, climbing up the few steps that led into her yard she was able thus to place her hands on his shoulders.
"Ambrose," she said then, "there was a neighbour remarked to me the other day, 'Ain't Ambrose Thompson changed a lot since his wife died?' I told her, 'No, folks don't change none in what I calls their fundamentals. They alter some; of course learnin' life don't mean to make no exception of them with troubles, but leopards don't stripe, nor zebras spot, nor human bein's get made over by experiences. You been livin' lately thinkin' you was changed entirely inside by Sarah's death, but you ain't changed—you've just been restin'. You've seen other folks git over things that hit 'em as hard as Sarah's dyin' done you, but course you thought you were differ'nt." Leaning over, Susan gave Ambrose a peck certainly intended as a kiss. "It's awful hard, boy, to wake up sometimes, after one has been adreamin', but I reckon you're wakin' up."
Susan was correct, Ambrose's dream had passed and by morning no mists of it remained. Since the revelation of Miner's accusation in the shop he had made no effort at self-deception, understanding now why since his meeting with the Yankee school teacher his world had been again so strangely vivid, so full of adventure, that even his trips back and forth to the shop had been filled with delightful impressions, ideas that might some day be confided to her. For, after all, is there not so much of life in the smallest place in this world when you are fully alive in it, and so little in the biggest when you are not?
Then the bitterest part of Ambrose's fight was that he knew Emily to be his real mate, knew that Sarah had been a boy's spring fancy, but that the summer had now set the seal of her warmth and fruition upon his second love. Moreover, he also knew that Emily might be made to care for him, since love like his is rarely without its answer.
Nevertheless when dawn came he had written this letter and taken it out to the post:
Dear Miss Dunham: I've got to quit comin' to see you and I can't say why, except it's best.
Then I haven't got the old reason, for to-night it's come to me the way to make Pennyroyal not treat you so bad. Can't you give out that you're sick, for if only the Pennyroyal ladies can get the chance to take care of you they'll be real pleased. Seems like letting people do good things for you is the surest way to make them quit doing mean; it's kind of human nature.
And there is one other thing I'd like to say to you: It's about Miner; he's a whole lot bigger than he looks and there can't no man on earth beat him at loving if you'll only help him a little at the start.