The woman was looking at him with incredulous, pitiful eyes like a dog's. “I hate much goin' on,” she whispered.
“Suppose,” said David, “you take those berries home and pack up your things. Got much?”
“All I've got will go in my bag.”
“Well, pack up; tell the madam where you live that you're sorry, but you're worn out—”
“God knows I am,” cried the woman, with sudden force, “worn out!”
“Well, you tell her that, and say you've got another chance, and—”
“What do you mean?” cried the woman, and she hung upon his words like a drowning thing.
“Mean? Why, what I mean is this. You pack your bag and come to the parson's back there, that white house.”
“I know—”
“In the mean time I'll see about getting a license, and—”