"Why can't you tell me what it is then? If you want to stop--but perhaps you don't?" He considered. "I never thought to go, and I never wanted to go less than what I do at this minute, seeing you cast down. I be very much obliged to you in a manner of speaking for not wanting me to go." She looked up drearily at him and sniffed. "We never know our luck," she said. "Not you, but me." To his intense amazement he perceived that Susan was shedding tears. She shook her head impatiently and it was not rain that fell from her face. If a small fire can kindle a great one, so surely may a drop of water swell into a river. Light began to dawn in the mind of the man and it much astonished him by what it revealed there. He was, in fact, so astounded by the spectacle that he fell into silence and stared with mental eyes at the explanation of the mysteries that had long puzzled him. His next remark linked past with present. "Be damned if I don't begin to know now why for I done this!" he said with a startled voice. "I've wondered for weeks and weeks what was driving me on, and I couldn't put no name to it, Susan; but 'tis coming out in me. Shut your mouth a minute and let me think." She kept silence and they plodded on. At the top of the hill a gust caught the umbrella and it was in peril. Thomas turned it against the wind. "Come under the lew side of the hedge," he said. "I thought 'twas conscience driving at me--but I begin to see it weren't. There's a wonder happening. Fetch in here under the trees a minute." She followed him through a gap at the summit of the hill and they left the road for the partial shelter of spruce firs. They escaped the wind, but the rain beat from the branches upon Mr. Palk's umbrella. "You're a woman of very high qualities and a good bit undervalued in your home--so it seems to me. You're the light of the house, but 'twas left for others to find that out seemingly--not your father. He's a man with a soft tongue, but a darned hard heart--to say it respectful." "I'm naught and less than naught. But I was always pleased to pleasure you," she answered. "The light of the house," he repeated. "And 'tis the light be far more to the purpose than the candlestick. I can speak to you straight, Susan, because I'm ugly as sin myself and not ashamed of it. I didn't have the choosing of my face, and my Maker didn't ax me what I'd like to look like come I grew up. And same with you. But you be a living lesson to us other plain people, and show us that the inside may be so fine no thinking man would waste a thought on the outside." Susan was not concerned with his philosophy: she had fastened on a question of fact. "You're not particular ugly, Thomas. I've seen scores plainer. You've got a very honest face and nice grey eyes if I may say so."