"But maybe he is sick and can't do anything," she persisted. "When he was here he said he'd been out of work and in a hospital for a long time." "Out of work?" repeated he, slowly. "Yes," she went on, hurriedly, now that she had begun the confession, "and he is in debt, too. It costs so much money to live up there, and if one gets behind it's hard to catch up, he says. Oh, 'Gene, do you suppose anything has happened to him? I have had no letter since last Thursday and this is Wednesday, isn't it? I know he is sick, I know it, 'Gene." "Ain't he on the paper any more?" "He has been off the paper for months." "Doin' nothin'?" "Some private work, but it hasn't paid well. And, besides, he hasn't been well. That's held him back." "What did he say when he was here? Did he have a job in view?" "No," she answered, shame outfacing her pride. Neither spoke for a long time. She was looking intently at the frozen ground, nervously clasping and unclasping her fingers. His black eyes were upon the white, drooping face, and his slow mind was beginning to see light. His heart began to swell with rage against the man who had won this prize and could not protect it. With the shrewdness of the countryman, he concluded that Jud had not been able to combat the temptations of the great city. He had failed because he had fallen. He cast a slow glance at Justine. Her head was bent and her hands were clasping and unclasping. He knew what it was costing her to make confession to him and lifted his head with the joy of feeling that she had come to him for sympathy. "Why don't he come home if he's sick?" he asked. "He could rest up down here an'--an' mebby that'd git him on his feet ag'in." "He doesn't like to give up, that's all. You know how brave and true he is, 'Gene. It would be awful to come back here and admit that--that he couldn't get along up there. O, I wish he would come back, I wish he would come back," she wailed, breaking down completely. The tears forced themselves through the fingers that were pressed to her eyes. "God A'mighty, how she loves him," groaned Crawley to himself. In this moment the big blasphemer of other days loved her more deeply than ever before in his dark, hopeless life. "Couldn't you--you write an' tell him to come down here fer a couple of weeks or--or a month?" he stammered, after a moment of thought. "He wouldn't come, 'Gene, he wouldn't come," she sobbed. "He said he would not give up until he had made a home for me up there. When he came the last time he was discouraged, but--but he got over it and--and--Oh, I wish he would write to me! The suspense is killing me." Crawley had turned his back and was leaning against the fence. "He needs me, 'Gene," she said; "he needs me to cheer him on. I ought to be with him up there." He started sharply and turned to her. She was looking into his eyes, and her hands were half lifted toward him.