“I do 'mind' her, as you call it. I AM thinking of her.” “No, you're not. It's yourself.” “If it was myself--and God knows it is the only happiness on earth for me--if it was only myself, and I really thought she wished me to stay away, I'd stay, I'd stay, though I'd pray to die before this hour was over.” “I know, I know. I've prayed to die myself afore now, but I'm here yet; and so will you be. We can't die so easy.” “But I know--” “Do you suppose SHE would come to YOU if she knew it would be your ruin?” He hesitated. The last time they met, ages before--no, only the previous afternoon--she had told him it was his happiness and his future only that she thought of. He choked and drew his hand across his eyes. “Mrs. Coffin,” he said, “you tell me it will be her ruin. YOU tell me so. You SAY she doesn't want me. I tell you that the only thing that will keep me from her is hearing that from her own lips. When she tells me to leave her I will, and not before.” “She'll tell you, John; she'll tell you. I know you must despise me, pretty nigh. I cal'late you think I'm a worldly old woman, carin' nothin' for your feelin's. Maybe I've talked pretty hard in the last few minutes, but I haven't meant to be hard. To be honest, I didn't think you'd listen to me. I expected you'd insist on seein' her yourself. Well, then, go and see her, if you must, though what will come of it can only be more trouble, for you run the risk of folks knowin' it and beginnin' to wonder. And I know Grace. She's made up her mind and won't change it. But I do ask you this: I ask you not to go now. Wait a little while, do. I left her asleep, worn out by what she's been through and under the effects of the doctor's sleepin' medicine. He said she must rest or he was afraid her brain would give out. For her sake, then, wait a little. Then, if you don't hear from her, maybe I can arrange a meetin' place where you can see her without anyone's knowin' it. I'll try. But do wait a little while, for her sake, won't you?” At last he was listening and hesitating. “Won't you?” begged Keziah. “Yes,” he answered slowly. “I'll wait. I'll wait until noon, somehow, if I can. I'll try. But not a minute later. Not one. You don't know what you're asking, Mrs. Coffin.” “Yes, I do. I know well. And I thank you for her sake.” But he did not have to wait until noon. At six o'clock, through the dew-soaked grass of the yard, came the Higgins boy. For the first time in his short life he had been awake all night and he moved slowly. The housekeeper opened the door. Ike held up an envelope, clutched in a grimy hand. “It's for you, Mrs. Keziah,” he said. “Gracie, she sent it. There ain't no answer.” Keziah took the letter. “How is she? And how's Nat?” she asked.