She began to see how slightly
argument would serve. Suddenly the conventions of life fell away from
her and left her young.
"Enoch," she said vigorously, "you've got to take me. Somehow, you've
got to. Talkin' won't make you see that what I said never meant no more
than the wind that blows. But you've got to keep me, or remember, all
your life, how you murdered me by goin' away. The farm's come between
us. Le's leave it! It's 'most time for the cars. You take me with you
now. If you tramp, I'll tramp. If you work out, so'll I. But where you
go, I've got to go, too." Some understanding of her began to creep
upon him; he dropped the child's hand, and came a step nearer. Enoch,
in these latter days of his life, had forgotten how to smile; but now a
sudden, mirthful gleam struck upon his face, and lighted it with the
candles of hope. He stood beside her, and Amelia did not look at him.
"Would you go with me, 'Melia?" he asked.
"I'm goin'," said she doggedly. Her case had been lost, but she could
not abandon it. She seemed to be holding to it in the face of righteous
judgment.
"S'pose I don't ask you?"
"I'll foller on behind."
"Don't ye want to go home, an' lock up, an' git a bunnit?"
She put one trembling hand to the calico apron about her head.
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