“I'm much obliged to you,” said Deborah.
She went through the kitchen with them. When the door was shut behind them she turned to Caleb, who had shuffled along at her heels. “Oh, father, why didn't you tell me if you knew, why didn't you tell me?” she gasped out.
Caleb stared at her. “Why, mother?” he returned.
“Didn't you know I thought I'd killed him, father? didn't you know I thought I'd killed my son? An' now maybe I haven't! maybe I haven't! O Lord, I thank thee for letting me know before I die! Maybe I haven't killed him, after all!”
“I didn't s'pose it would make any difference,” said Caleb, helplessly.
Suddenly, to the old man's great terror, his wife caught hold of him and clung to him. He staggered a little; his arms hung straight at his sides. “Why, what ails you, mother?” he stammered out. “I didn't tell you, 'cause I thought you'd be blamin' him for 't. Mother, don't you take on so; now don't!”
“I—wish—you'd go an' get Rebecca an' Barney, father,” said Deborah, faintly. She suddenly wavered so that her old husband wavered with her, and they reeled back and forth like two old trees in a wind.
“Why, what ails you, mother, what ails you?” Caleb gasped out. He caught Deborah's arm, and clutched out at something to save himself. Then they sank to the floor together.
Barney had just come up from the field, and was at his own door when his father came panting into the yard. “What is it? what's the matter?” he cried out.
“Mother's fell!” gasped Caleb.