When the contractor was out of sight John sank limply into a chair on the porch. The part he had played against his emotions had told on him. Not the hardest day of physical toil could have so wrought upon his nerves. Cavanaugh's steady tread was dying out in the distance. Afar off a dog was baying. Suddenly, across the street against a scraggy growth of sassafras-bushes, he saw something white moving. He thought that it might be a dog, a sheep, or a calf. It moved again. It was coming toward him. It approached the gate. It was Dora, and she timidly raised the latch and crept into the yard. "Don't get mad, brother John," she pleaded. "I saw him come. I was hidden over there in the bushes. I couldn't go to sleep to save my life. I tried." He was too much undone to protest. Moreover, there was a dumb, shrinking, animal-like worship in her tone and mien that watered the feverish waste within him. For the first time in his life he wanted to take the barefooted child into his lap and fondle her. He longed for a closer contact with her pitying warmth. To see her weep in his behalf would help; her childish tears would balm his wounds. "Come in, kid," he said, gently. "I didn't mean to be rough to-night. You must overlook it. I was out of sorts--a fool to be so, but I was." She sat down on the door-step, her eyes glued on him. "What did he say?" she inquired. "I want to know. Is she coming back to you?" "No, she's gone for good, kid," he answered. "But don't you bother; it is all right." "What are you going to do?" she asked. "Stay on here in this house? I'll cook and clean for you, if you do. You can get another wife. If she wouldn't stay I'd let her go. There are plenty of others. Was she after some other fellow, brother John?" "Oh no, no!" he jerked out. "It is not that. Don't you understand? But I see you don't. How could you?" "You didn't say whether you are going to stay on here in this house or not," the child pursued. "That is the main thing." Suddenly he leaned forward and stared straight at her. "Listen, kid," he began. "I tried you once and you kept my secret, so I know I can trust you. If I now tell you something I don't want a soul to know, will you promise to keep it?" "Yes, yes," she agreed. "I won't tell, brother John. I'd cut out my tongue first." "You see, I don't want Sam to know," John went on. "I don't want my mother or Jane to know--or Tilly, or any one alive. It is important. Sam will be as much surprised as any of them. Kid, I've made up my mind to pack my grip and catch the four-o'clock north-bound train. I'm going to cut this thing out forever. I'll cover my tracks. Not a living soul shall know where I am. I've thought it all out, and it is the only thing to do."