Hemphill, whose watchful eyes were
gloating over the scene, then with a beckoning look towards Joyce walked
to the back door. Joyce instantly followed her, leaving her escort in
low-toned talk with the undertaker.

"I can't say a word before her," whispered Lucy with a backward jerk of
her thumb, "she tattles so! Nate used to tell me not to. But about--I--I
can't send no word. He killed my father? Don't you see? _He killed my
father._"

There was such an intensity of trouble and despair in the whisper that
it started tears in the eyes of Joyce.

"I can only repeat, my dear, it was not intentional. He was beside
himself with trouble and passion; and it was all for you."

"Yes, but 'twas awful, awful! Pa was the red-mad kind, you see; so hot
and spunky you couldn't do nothing but run from it. You knew it didn't
mean much--just a tantrum that he'd come out of slick enough byme-by,
and then be good as pie to make up. But Nate's! 'Twas the awful
white-mad kind. I never saw it in him before, and I could see it meant a
whole lot. It scared all my scare about pa right out of me. It--I can't
tell you how it made me feel! 'Twas like seeing into the bad place, I
guess. I knew something had got to break, and it did. 'Twas poor pa's
skull. How can I dare to say good words to Nate, when _he_ lies like
that in there?"

She pointed backward with a gesture that was tragic in its simplicity,
and Joyce could scarcely find words for further argument. But her keen
sympathy was with Nate. She had that rare tenderness which goes with
acute perceptions, and cannot be complete without them. She could put
herself in another's place and actually feel another's woes. She felt
poor Tierney's so strongly that she sent up a prayer for guidance before
answering, very softly, "My child, Christ forgave from the very cross."

"But you see I can't _forgive_, because--Oh, you don't know, you don't
know. I'm so awful, so wicked!"

She pressed her clasped hands before her mouth as if to shut something
back, while Joyce gazed at her, perplexed and uncomprehending.

"You can't forgive, Lucy? Perhaps not, just yet. But you can pity. Let
me at least tell poor Nate that you are sure he would not have done it
only in great anger, and you'll try to forgive him. Mayn't I say that?"

"Y-yes, make it up any way you like only--only----"

"Only what, Lucy?"

But the girl shook her head.

"I can't tell you. You don't understand. Just say anything you want t