hoped to
be!"

I troubled no more. Here was a holy passion. Child that I was--ignorant
of love and knowing little enough of evil--I still perceived that this
love was surely of the good God Himself. I feared no more for my dear
sister. She would be safe with him.

"You may love my sister," said I, "an you want to. You may have her."

He frowned in a troubled way.

"Ay," I repeated, convinced, "you may have my dear sister. I'm not
afraid."

"Davy," he said, now so grave that my heart jumped, "you give her to the
man I am."

"I'm not carin'," I replied, "what you was."

"You do not know."

Apprehension grappled with me. "I'm not wantin' t' know," I protested.
"Come, zur," I pleaded, "leave us go home."

"Once, Davy," he said, "I told you that I had been wicked."

"You're not wicked now."

"I was."

"I'm not carin' what you was. Oh, zur," I cried, tugging at his hand,
"leave us go home!"

"And," said he, "a moment ago I told you that I had been a dissipated
fellow. Do you know what that means?"

"I'm not _wantin_' t' know!"

"You must know."

I saw the peril of it all. "Oh, tell me not!" I begged. "Leave us go
home!"

"But I _must_ tell you, Davy," said he, beginning, now in an agony of
distress, to pace the hilltop. "It is not a matter of to-day. You are
only a lad, now; but you will grow up--and learn--and know. Oh, God," he
whispered, looking up to the frowning sky, laying, the while, his hand
upon my head, "if only we could continue like this child! If only we
_need_ not know! I want you, Davy," he continued, once more addressing
me, "when you grow up, to know, to recall, whatever happens, that I was
fair, fair to you and fair to her, whom you love. You are not like other
lads. It is your _place_, I think, in this little community, that makes
you different. _You_ can understand. I _must_ tell you."

"I'm scared t' know," I gasped. "Take my sister, zur, an' say no more."

"Scared to know? And I to tell. But for your sister's sake--for the sake
of her happiness--I'll tell you, Davy--let me put my arm around you--ay,
I'll tell you, lad, God help me! what it means to be a dissipated
fellow. O Christ," he sighed, "I pay for all I did! Merciful God, at
this moment I pay the utmost price! Davy, lad," drawing me closer, "you
will not judge me harshly?"

"I'll hearken," I answered, hardening.

Then, frankly, he told me as much, I fancy, as a man may tell a lad of
such things....

* *