“No truer father to him than I've been a husband to you, Nancy,” the man said, and as they walked along together, so far apart, his speech came to him, and he began to plead their case with her as before an adverse judge. Worn as she was with the arguments for and against them after the long day of iteration, she could not refuse to let him plead. She scarcely answered him, but he knew when they reached Gillespie's cabin that she had seen them in the fierce light of her conscience, where there was no shadow of turning. David was alone; Jane, he said, had gone to the Reverdys, and was going with the woman to the Temple. Nancy did not seem to hear him. She took the sleeping baby from its father's arms. “Laban has come with me to say good-by before you, David. I hope you'll be satisfied.” “I hope your conscience will be satisfied, Nancy. It doesn't matter about me. Laban, do you see this thing like I do?” “I see it like Nancy does.” “God will bless your effort for righteousness. Your path is dark before you now, but His light will shine upon it.” The old man paused helplessly, and Nancy asked “Does Jane know?” “Not yet. And I will confess I'm not certain what to do, about her, and about the neighbors. This is a cross to me, too, Nancy. I have lived a proud life here; there has never been talk about me or mine. Now when you and Laban are parted, there will be talk.” “There's no need to be,” Laban said; “not at once. They want me back at the Cross Roads, the Wilkinses do. I can go now as well as in the morning. I forgot to tell you,” he added to his wife. “It was drove out of my mind.” “Oh, I don't blame you,” she answered. “I can have work there all the fall.” David Gillespie rubbed his forehead, and said tremulously: “I don't know what to say. I suppose I am weak. It'll be _one_ kind of a lie. But, Laban--I thank you--” “I can come back here Sundays and see Nancy and the baby,” Laban suggested. The old man's voice shook. “You'll be making it harder for yourself,” was all he could say. “But perhaps--perhaps there'll be light--that light you said--by and by--” “Let us pray that there'll be no light from the Pit. I am a sinful man, Laban, to let you do this thing. I ought to have strength for all of us. But I am older now, I'm not what I was--the day has tried me, Nancy.” “Good-by, then, Laban,” the woman said. “And don't you think hard of David. I don't. And I'm not sure I'll ever let you come. Say good-by as if it was for life.” She turned to her brother. “We can kiss, I reckon?” “Oh, I reckon,” he lamented, and went indoors. Laban opened his arms as if to take her in them; but she interposed the baby.