In the dusk the wife's white hand was gleaming--putting back the gray hair from her husband's eyes. "And we still love her so, dear," she said. "What!" he cried, and now his shoulders stiffened. "What! do you uphold her?" "Oh, no, but I am sorry for her, and I am not going to turn against her simply because she has made a mistake. She has acted unwisely, but she has not disgraced herself." "Yes, she has disgraced herself and the rest of us along with her. She has married the dying son of a convict. I didn't want to tell you this--I told her----" This was like a slap in the face, and for a moment she was bereft of the cool dignity that had been so pronounced a characteristic of her quiet life. "If you didn't tell me before why do you tell me now?" was her reply. She stood back from him, regathering her scattered reserve, striving to be calm. "But it can't be helped now, John." Her gentle dignity reasserted itself. "Let time and the something that brightens hopes and softens fears gradually soothe our affliction." She had taken up the Major's manner of speech. "Mr. Taylor, I have never intimated such a thing to you before," she added, "but it was my hope that she might become your wife. There, my dear man, don't let it tear you so." The giant was shaken, appearing to be gnarled and twisted by her words, like a tree in a fierce wind. "I talked to her about you," she continued, "and it was my hope--but now let us be kind to her memory, if indeed we are to regard her simply as a memory." "Margaret," said the Major, getting up and throwing back his leonine head, "you are enough to inspire me with strength--you always have. But while you may teach me to bear a trouble, you can't influence me to turn counter to the demands of a just resentment. She shan't put her foot in this house again. Jim, you can find a more suitable woman, sir. Did you hear what became of them after that scoundrel married them? Who performed the ceremony? Morris? He must never put his foot in my yard again. I'll set the dogs on him. What became of them, Jim?" "I didn't hear, but I think that they must have driven to town in a buggy." "Well, it really makes no difference what became of them. Are you going, Jim?" "Yes, sir." "Won't you stay with us to-night?" "No, I thank you. It's better for me to be alone." He hesitated. "If you want me to I'll find out to-night where they've gone." "Oh, no, do nothing of the sort, for I assure you that it makes no difference. Let them go to the devil." "John, don't say that, please," his wife pleaded. "But I have said it. Well, if you are determined to go, good-night." "Good-night." Jim strode off into the darkness, but halted and turned about. "Major, if I can forgive her you ought to," he said. "You've got common sense to help you, but common sense was never known to help a man that's in my fix."