He stood for a moment looking across the stark palmetto, over the dusty stretch of road, across the glare, to the town. His eyes blinded and filled.
“It wouldn’t have been a great while,” he said. “I wish you hadn’t, Scip, but never mind!”
He shook the negro gently off, as if he had been a child. There was nothing more to say. He would go back to his work. As he walked along, he suddenly said to himself:
“She did not smile this morning! Nor the lady at the telegraph office, either. Nor—a good many other folks. I remember now.... Lord!” he added aloud, thought breaking into one of his half-unconscious prayers, which had the more pathos because it began with the rude abruptness of an apparent oath,—“Lord! what in the name of heaven am I going to do about it?”
Now, as he was coming into the little city, with bowed head and broken face, he met Doctor Dare. She was riding on her rounds upon a patient, Southern tackey, and she was riding fast. But she reined up and confronted him.
“Mr. Hope! There is a hateful rumor brought from New York about you. I am going to tell you immediately. It is said—”
“Wait a minute!” he pleaded, holding out both hands. “Now. Go on.”
“It is said that you are an escaped convict,” continued the lady, distinctly.
“It is false!” cried the nurse, in a ringing voice.
The doctor regarded him for a moment.