“Go on, Davy,” chuckled the old dame. “Tell the rest—tell about the _other_ furrin womern. Ye said thar was _two_ on ‘em. That’s some sperrit, boy! I declar, I’m a-thinkin’ more of ye now than I done hafe a hour ago! While ye’re confessin’, come on through an’ tell me the hull story. Was this-un old or young—was she married or single?” “Single,” said David Joslin, still staring into the fire; “and young.” “What manner of gal was _she_? Was she purty?” “I didn’t think any woman ever could be so beautiful, in one way,” said Joslin soberly and truthfully. He raised his eyes now and looked fair into the face of his granddam. The old woman shrilled with laughter as she saw the pallor of his cheek—the laughter of the old at the ways of life gone by. “Go on, Davy!” said she. “What sort of lookin’ gal was _she_? Tell me now—was she big or little—dark or fair?” “She would just about go under my arm if I stood up,” said David Joslin slowly. “She was dark—her hair and eyes both dark. She told me she was French and Irish—she came from Boston, so she said.” “French and Irish—oh, my God!” exclaimed the old dame. “Same as _myself_! Law sakes, Meliss’,” she shrilled through the half-open door beyond— “could you a-blame him? Didn’t I know his daddy, an’ don’t I know him? Don’t I know _ary_ man, come to that—— “Well, Davy,” she added at last, “when air ye a-goin’ to leave us and go on back Outside? I reckon _that’s_ the one ye’re a-goin’ back to, huh?” “I’ll never see her again, Granny,” said David Joslin quietly. “But—now you ask me why I’m not a preacher—that’s why.” Silence fell now in the little cabin, so agonized was he. The old woman nodded her head slowly. “I’m going away now, Granny,” he continued at last “I’ve hurt Meliss’ mightily, and I’m sorry. I sinned, and I was to blame for it, not she, and I know that clear enough—she didn’t know any better. I’ve made nothing but trouble all my life, for myself most of all. Sometimes it’s hard to stand.” “That’s right, Davy,” said his old granddam, nodding. “Yore way is a-goin’ to be right hard, I kin see that. Ye got a heap of troubles, one thing with another.” “Well,” said he after a time. “It’s no use my hanging around. I’m going back.” “Goin’ back!” shrilled the old dame, in her toothless mirthfulness. “We’ll look fer ye some day—but ye go on back now to that other womern. French-Irish!—she’ll be givin’ ye the slip if ye don’t watch out!” “I’m not going back to her,” said David Joslin. “I told you that was done. I’m not coming back here, either.” “Huh!” commented his wrinkled ancestress. “Here ye was with _three_ wimmern on yore hands afore ye was thirty year old—Meliss’ an’ them two others! Well, I’ve heerd tell of mounting boys that has went Outside an’ made their fortunes an’ come back.—Ye been right busy, one way of speakin’.” Her grandson only stared at her, mute.