"Your ideas of filial duty were always beautiful, Virginia," he said, his admiring eyes feasting on her face. "I remember once—I shall never forget it—it was the day you let me wade across the creek with you in my arms. You said you were too big to be carried, but you were as light as a feather. I could have carried you that way all day and never been tired. It was then that you told me in all sincerity that you would really die for your mother's sake. It seemed a strangely unselfish thing for a little girl to say, but I believe now that you'd do it."
"Yes, in my eyes it is the first, almost the whole of one's duty in life," Virginia replied. "I hardly have a moment's happiness now, owing to my mother's failing health."
"Yes, I was sorry to hear she was afflicted," said King. "She's up and about, though, I believe."
"Yes, but she is suffering more than mere bodily pain. She has her trouble on her mind night and day. She's afraid to die, Luke. That's queer to me. Even at my age I'd not be afraid, and she is old, and really ought not to care. I'd think she would have had enough of life, such as it has been from the beginning till now, full of strife, anger, and envy. I hear her calling me now, and I must go in. Come see her, won't you?"
"Yes, very soon," King said, as she turned away. He stood at the fence and watched her as she moved gracefully over the grass to the gate near the cottage. At the door she turned and smiled upon him, and then was gone.
"Yes, I now know why I came back," he said. "It was Virginia—little Virginia—that brought me. Oh, God, isn't she beautiful—isn't she strong of character and noble? Away back there when she wore short dresses she believed in me. Once" (he caught his breath) "I seemed to see the dawn of love in her eyes, but it has died away. She has out-grown it. She thought me dead; she didn't want to think me alive and capable of neglecting my mother. Well, she shall see. She, too, looks on me as an idle drift-about; in due time she shall know I am more serious than that. But I must go slowly; if I am too impulsive I may spoil all my chances, and, Luke King, if that woman does not become your wife you will be a failure—a dead failure at everything to which you lay your hands, for you'd never be able to put your heart into anything again—you couldn't, for it's hers for all time and eternity."
It was dusk when he returned to his mother's cabin. Jake sat on his warm bag of meal just inside the door. Old Mark had taken off his shoes, and sat under a persimmon-tree "cooling off" and yelling impatiently at his wife to "hurry up supper."
When she heard Luke had returned, she came to the door where he sat talking to Jake. "We didn't know what had become of you," she said, as she emerged from the cabin, bending her head to pass through the low doorway.
"I got interested in looking over the Dickerson farm," he replied, "and before I realized it the sun was almost down."
"Oh, it don't matter; I saved you a piece of pie; I'm just warming it over now. I'll bet you didn't get a bite o' dinner."