Hilary was astonished at her attitude and its satire--the more terrible because quite unconscious. "What would Daniel say to that?" he asked. "I don't know," she answered. "And I don't care." Then her outlook utterly changed at a breath. "Yet that's folly, if justice be anything," she continued. "And I do care--care with all my might. 'Tis the like of Daniel--pure in heart and soul, the faithful servant of his God, that must go in first. And so he should. If heaven's waiting, 'tis Dan and my dear, dear father, and such as them--not me and you--will be put first. 'Tis for their sakes I ever think or care about it, or want to go there. For their sakes. But for them and my little boy, I'd sooner go nowhere. I've had nearly enough of living anywhere--beautiful though 'tis to be alive. I don't want much more of it--not now you've said this to me." "May you live long--very, very long--long enough to forgive me." "You needn't say things like that," she answered. "The more you heap all this misery on your own head, the less I'm likely to blame you. I never did--not even in thought, 'Twould have been a coward's part. 'Twas no more than a bitter bargain, when all's said." "How can you have the heart to speak so?" "Because I ban't the religious creature you are, I suppose. Let the dead past be--or you'll fret yourself to death afore your time." "Daniel is never out of my thoughts. Sometimes I feel almost as though I could fling myself on the ground at his feet and, for my peace of mind, tell all." "So you said last year, and made my heart stand still. Yet 'tis a cruel, selfish wish--even for a full-blown new Christian, I should reckon. I loathed you for it at the time, and my thoughts choked me to think as a man who--to think such a wish could come to you. But now I'm changed too. 'Tis all one to me what you do, so far as I'm concerned, and I'd tell Dan myself, if he was anything but what he is. Not for fear of him do I keep dumb--God He knows that--but for love of him. For great love of his dear self I want the past to be dead and buried. If it would better Dan to tell it, I'd tell it; if my death would help his life and his power of goodness, and fix him any stronger and surer with heaven, I'd die laughing. But what would hap to him if he knew? Would it bring him nearer to his God? No--worse luck: I'd be casting down his God and leaving him stripped of everything he cares for and clings to. You know what he'd do--if you have spared a thought from yourself for him." The man winced. "I deserve that," he said. "You're right enough. I shall die with this on my conscience. I shall die, and trust Christ to do the rest--for you and him--and even for me."