"But where are you going?" pleaded the mother.
One less indifferent than John could not have failed to notice that her face was pale and her voice husky with pent-up feeling.
"Just exactly where I like, and nowhere else. If I knew where that was I might tell you, but I don't. I never did as I pleased an hour since I was born, and I mean to do it now."
What was the use of talking to one in such a mood? Yet they talked, and argued, and threatened, and used sharp words, and bitter words, and words that were calculated to leave life-long scars on hearts; and the talks were frequently renewed, and lasted away into the midnight; and at last John had declared that he would not stand this sort of thing another hour, and he would not take any money—not a copper of it, even if it was offered; and he would not take his clothes along—not a rag.
"You can sell them to the first rag-man that comes along, and build another barn with their value, for all I care," he said to his father, in a pitiful attempt at sarcasm.
And then, without another word or a glance at his mother or a pretence at good-bye, he strode out of the room, closing the door after him with a bang. That was the evening before, just at supper-time, and though his mother did that night what she had never done before in her life—put some of the supper down, carefully covered to keep warm for John—he came not. The next morning's milking was done without him, and as the long rainy day waned it became evident to each heart that John was gone.
Now I have not told you the worst of this. For the past week the mother's heart had been wrung with such anxiety that she had humbled herself in a manner that she, a few days before, would not have imagined possible. She had followed Louise one morning up to her room, coming with slow and doubtful tread, closing the door after her, and looking behind her in a half-frightened way, as if to be sure that there were no other listeners to her humiliation than this one, and had said to Louise, catching her breath while she spoke,—
"You know how I feel about John. I have heard you talk about praying over everything; if you believe that it does any good, why don't you pray to have him kept at home?"
"Mother," said Louise, coming close to her, taking the hard old hand in hers, "I do pray for him, every hour in the day, almost every minute it seems to me, and I believe it will do good; I believe He will hear our prayer. But there is no one who could pray for John as his mother could. I do so desire to have his mother's prayers infold him like a garment. Won't you pray for him?"
"I'm not a praying woman," said Mrs. Morgan, trying to keep her voice steady. "Still, if I believed in it as you do, I would pray now if I never did again."