"All business is roguey," he said, gruffly.
"I guess you don't mean that," she said, mildly. "I know you don't mean that I've done you harm. I guess you're jus' in trouble like the river in the spring, when the ice goes mixy-maxy every way."
He smiled slightly as he rose, and looked down into the shrewd little face, "Well, ta, ta, 'Tilda—be a good girl."
"Where are you goin'?" she asked, helplessly.
"Blest if I know—somewhere to earn a living, to Canada, maybe."
"Don't you go through Vanceboro," she said, sharply, then she pressed her hands to her head. "I think I'm crazy—are you Hank Dillson, standin' there sayin' you're goin' to leave us like this?"
"Don't take on, 'Tilda," he said, consolingly. "I'm real sorry. I wouldn't have come out of my way this much if I hadn't promised you, and if you hadn't been such a nice little girl. Of course you haven't hurt me. I guess you've done me good, for I've had a kind of disgust with my business ever since you set foot in my life."
She paid no attention to the latter part of his speech. "You say you've got to go, an' I can't keep you," she murmured, stupidly, "an' you don't know where you're goin'."
"I don't know, an' I don't want to know. I'll loaf along till my money gives out, then I'll go to work."