her impossible
task of speech--"like them daffies over there. 'Twould be--mud."

This, though it did not satisfy her, carried an ineffable loathing, the
loathing that had its seed in the pathway of her difficult life.

"Now," she said, "you set by him, don't you?"

"Yes," said Nan.

"If 'twas your body an' soul, they'd be nothin' to you if he needed
'em."

"Nothing."

"An' you're goin' to stan' by him, an' if you marry away from him----"

"Never mind that," said Nan. "What do you want me to do?"

"I want you," said Tira, "to see what I mean. An' I want you to tell it
or not to tell it, as it seems best. An' if ever the time comes, when
it'll do him good to know I run away from him because he was my life an'
my soul an' my God, you tell him. An' if it ain't best for him to know,
you let it rest betwixt you an' me."

"But, Tira," said Nan, "you're coming back?"

Tira considered.

"You see," she answered finally, "I've got my walkin' papers, as you
might say. The baby's gone. 'Twas the baby that made trouble betwixt his
father an' me. An' now there won't be no reason for my hidin' in the
shack up there or even passin' the time o' day with you, either of you.
An' that's a kind of a runnin' away, ain't it? Shouldn't you call it
runnin' away?"

She smiled dimly, and Nan said:

"Yes. But I shall come over to the Donnyhills' to-morrow."

"Yes," said Tira, "so do. Now I'd better go."

They got up and Nan put her hands on Tira's shoulders--and one hand was
numb from that iron clasp--and stood looking at her. Nan was not a
kissing woman, but she considered whether she should kiss her, to show
she loved her. She thought not. Tira's body had so revolted against
life, the life of the earth that had grown up into a jungle, that it
would be kinder to leave it inviolate even by a touch.

"Don't you want to change your mind?" Nan asked. "Mayn't I get the car?
It's seven long miles, Tira."

"Not the way I'm goin'," said Tira. There was a little smile at the
corners of her mouth. It was a kind smile, a mother smile. She meant to
leave Nan reassured. "I go 'cross lots, by old Moosewood's steppin'
stones."

Nan withdrew her hands and thought absently how thin Tira's shoulders
were under her dress. She was like a ship, built for endurance and
speed, but with all her loveliness in the beauty of bare line. Tira put
on her hat and took up her daffodils and followed, out at the front door
and down the path. Nan looked back