“Much obliged, sir,” and, rising, Joe took Mr. Lyndsay’s offered hand. “I’ll come,” he said, and walked back toward the cabin, while Lyndsay, beckoning to Rose, turned into the ox-road which led to the shore.
For a while they were silent. Then he said, “This child is dying of a fever; no word of the diphtheria to your mother or even to Anne.”
“One can escape mama easily, but Aunt Anne is a relentless questioner.”
“I will speak to her.”
“That would be better, I think. How horrible it all was! And that woman! Do you think she really did not care?”
“No, no, dear. Imagine a life of constant poverty, utter want of means,—to-day’s wages meaning to-morrow’s bread; a cruel soil; a mortgaged farm at that; then one child after another dying; the helplessness of want of money; the utter lack of all resources; the lonely, meager life. This woman has the moral disease of one long, unchanging monotony of despair.”
“I see—I see—you know more, and that makes you forgive more.”
“Some one has said, Rose, that to be able to explain all is to be able to forgive all, and that only One can truly explain all.”
“It seems to me, Pardy, that poverty has more temptations in it than wealth, and more explanations of sin, too. Isn’t the man a brute, Pardy? He had been drinking, and to drink at such a time!”
“No; he is coarse, but not a bad fellow. You or I would have much we could turn to if trouble came upon us. This man has nothing. It does not surprise me that he drank. It is not his habit. But let us drop it all now. I am sorry I took you.” He was not unwise enough to speak of the anguish of dread which had possessed him as he stood by the bedside, and now made haste to add, “And yet the lesson was a good one. You won’t want to fish, I fear?” He had in some ways appreciative touch of his kind, and knew the daughter well.