"Why didn't you leave her get him drunk?" I says. "If I'd have killed him, it'd been you that murdered him, Joe." "Now, look here," says Joe, "I'm a-carrying on an honest business. If a man goes for to make a fool of himself, is that my lookout, or ain't it? Who do you think lets me keep this business, anyway? It's the U. S. Gover'ment, that's who it is. You better be careful what you sling at this business." "Then it's the Gover'ment that's a big fool, instead of you and Keddie," I says, and started for home. I remember Joe shouted out something; but all I was thinking was that the day before I'd of thought it was wicked to say what I'd just said, and now I didn't; and I wondered why. There wasn't a minute to lose now, because if Keddie was groaning he'd be up and out again and looking for both of us. Mother and Mis' Bingy and the baby was still out in the yard by the well-house, and Father was just starting down the road after me. It's funny, but what, just the day before, would have been a thing so big I wouldn't have thought of doing it, chiefly on account of the row it'd make, was now just easy and natural. They must have said things, I remember how loud their voices were and how I wished they wouldn't. And I remember them saying over and over the same thing: "You don't need to go. You don't _need_ to go. Ain't you always had a roof over you and enough to eat? A girl had ought to be thankful for a good home." But I went and got my things ready and got myself dressed. I wanted to tell them about the feeling I had that I _had_ to go, but I couldn't tell about that, now that I was going, any more than I could tell when I thought I mustn't go. I did say something to Mother when she come and stood in the bedroom door and told me I was an ungrateful girl. "Ungrateful for what?" I says. "For me bringing you up and working my head off for you," she says, "and your Pa the same." "But, Mother," I says, "that was your job to do. And me--I ain't found my job--yet." "Your job is to do as we tell you to," says Mother. "The idea!" I tried, just that once, to make her see. "Mother," I says, "I'm separate. I'm somebody else. I'm old enough to get a-hold of some life like you've had, and some work I want to do. And I can't do it if I stay here. I'm _separate_--don't you see that?" Then it come over me, dim, how surprised she must feel, after all, to have to think that, that I was separate, instead of her and hers. I went over toward her--I wanted to tell her so. But she says: "I don't know what you're coming to. And I'm glad I don't. When I'm dead and gone, you'll think of this." And then I couldn't say what I'd tried to say. But I thought what she said was true, that I would think about it some day, and be sorry. If it hadn't been for Mis' Bingy, I s'pose I'd have given it up, even then. It's hard to make a thing that's been so for a long time stop being so. But Mis' Bingy needed me, and I was sorry for her; and I liked the feeling.