David Gillespie rubbed his forehead, and said tremulously: “I don't know what to say. I suppose I am weak. It'll be one kind of a lie. But, Laban—I thank you—”
“I can come back here Sundays and see Nancy and the baby,” Laban suggested.
The old man's voice shook. “You'll be making it harder for yourself,” was all he could say.
“But perhaps—perhaps there'll be light—that light you said—by and by—”
“Let us pray that there'll be no light from the Pit. I am a sinful man, Laban, to let you do this thing. I ought to have strength for all of us. But I am older now, I'm not what I was—the day has tried me, Nancy.”
“Good-by, then, Laban,” the woman said. “And don't you think hard of David. I don't. And I'm not sure I'll ever let you come. Say good-by as if it was for life.” She turned to her brother. “We can kiss, I reckon?”
“Oh, I reckon,” he lamented, and went indoors.
Laban opened his arms as if to take her in them; but she interposed the baby.
“Kiss her first. Me last. Just once. Now, go! I won't be weak with you like David is. And don't you be afraid for me. I can get along. I'm not a man!” She went into the cabin, with her baby over her shoulder; but in a little while she came back without it, and stared after the figure of Laban losing itself in the night. Then she sat down on the doorstep and cried; it seemed as if she never could stop; but the tears helped her.
When she lifted her head she caught the sounds of singing from the village below the upland where the cabin stood. It was the tune that carried, not the words, but she knew them from the tune; as well as if she were in the Temple with them she knew what the people were singing. While she followed the lines helplessly, almost singing them herself, she was startled by the presence of a boy, who had come silently round the cabin in his bare feet and stood beside her.