"Won't you stay with us to-night?"
"No, I thank you. It's better for me to be alone." He hesitated. "If you want me to I'll find out to-night where they've gone."
"Oh, no, do nothing of the sort, for I assure you that it makes no difference. Let them go to the devil."
"John, don't say that, please," his wife pleaded.
"But I have said it. Well, if you are determined to go, good-night."
"Good-night." Jim strode off into the darkness, but halted and turned about. "Major, if I can forgive her you ought to," he said. "You've got common sense to help you, but common sense was never known to help a man that's in my fix."
They heard the gate open, heard the latch click behind him as he passed out into the road. Toward his lonely home he trod his heavy way, in the sand, in the rank weeds, picking not his course, stumbling, falling once to his knees. The air was full of the pungent scent of the walnut, turning yellow, and in it was a memory of Louise. Often had he seen her with her apron full of nuts that had fallen from the trees under which he now was passing. He halted and looked about him. The moon was rising and he saw some one sitting on a fence close by the road side. "Is that you, Jim?" a voice called.
"Yes. Oh, it's you, is it, Mr. Batts?"
"Yep, just about. Hopped up here to smell the walnuts. Takes me away back. They took it pretty hard, didn't they?"
"Yes, particularly the Major. His wife has more control over herself."