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Amelia sat looking wanly past him. She began to see how slightly argument would serve. Suddenly the conventions of life fell away from her and left her young.

“Enoch,” she said vigorously, “you’ve got to take me. Somehow, you’ve got to. Talkin’ won’t make you see that what I said never meant no more than the wind that blows. But you’ve got to keep me, or remember, all your life, how you murdered me by goin’ away. The farm’s come between us. Le’s leave it! It’s ‘most time for the cars. You take me with you now. If you tramp, I’ll tramp. If you work out, so’ll I. But where you go, I’ve got to go, too.” Some understanding of her began to creep upon him; he dropped the child’s hand, and came a step nearer. Enoch, in these latter days of his life, had forgotten how to smile; but now a sudden, mirthful gleam struck upon his face, and lighted it with the candles of hope. He stood beside her, and Amelia did not look at him.

“Would you go with me, ‘Melia?” he asked.

“I’m goin’,” said she doggedly. Her case had been lost, but she could not abandon it. She seemed to be holding to it in the face of righteous judgment.

“S’pose I don’t ask you?”

“I’ll foller on behind.”

“Don’t ye want to go home, an’ lock up, an’ git a bunnit?”

She put one trembling hand to the calico apron about her head.

“No.”

“Don’t ye want to leave the key with some o’ the neighbors?”

“I don’t want anything in the world but you,” owned Amelia shamelessly.

Enoch bent suddenly, and drew her to her feet. “‘Melia,” said he, “you look up here.”

She raised her drawn face and looked at him, not because she wished, but because she must. In her abasement, there was no obedience which she would deny him. But she could only see that he was strangely happy, and so the more removed from her own despair. Enoch swiftly passed his arm about her, and turned her homeward. He laughed a little. Being a man, he must laugh when, that bitter ache in the throat presaged more bitter tears.

“Come, ‘Melia,” said he, “come along home, an’ I’ll tell you all about the cows. I made a real good bargain. Come, Rosie.”

Amelia could not answer. It seemed to her as if love had dealt with her as she had not deserved; and she went on, exalted, afraid of breaking the moment, and knowing only that he was hers again. But just before they left the shadow of the woods, he stopped, holding her still, and their hearts beat together.

“‘Melia,” said he brokenly, “I guess I never told you in so many words, but it’s the truth: if God Almighty was to make me a woman, I’d have her you, not a hair altered. I never cared a straw for any other. I know that now. You’re all there is in the world.”

When they walked up over the brown field, the sun lay very warmly there with a promise of spring fulfilled. The wind had miraculously died, and soft clouds ran over the sky in flocks. Rosie danced on ahead, singing her queer little song, and Enoch struggled with himself to speak the word his wife might wish.

“‘Melia,” said he at last, “there ain’t anything in my life I couldn’t tell you. I jest ain’t dwelt on it, that’s all. If you want to have me go over it”–

“I don’t want anything,” said Amelia firmly. Her eyes were suffused, and yet lambent. The light in them seemed to be drinking up their tears. Her steps, she knew, were set within a shining way. At the door only she paused and fixed him with a glance. “Enoch,” said she threateningly, “whose cows were them you sold to-day?”

He opened his lips, but she looked him down. One word he rejected, and then another. His cheeks wrinkled up into obstinate smiling, and he made the grimace of a child over its bitter draught.

“‘Melia, it ain’t fair,” he complained. “No, it ain’t. I’ll take one of ’em, if you say so, or I’ll own it don’t make a mite o’ difference whose they be. But as to lyin'”–

“Say it!” commanded Amelia. “Whose were they?”

“Mine!” said Enoch. They broke into laughter, like children, and held each other’s hands.

“I ain’t had a mite o’ dinner,” said Amelia happily, as they stepped together into the kitchen. “Nor you! An’ Rosie didn’t eat her pie. You blaze up the fire, an’ I’ll fry some eggs.”