ted soft by what was allus hell-hard to him? Four-and-thirty
short years he lived, then the world beginned to ope its eyes to his
paarts, an' awnly then--tu late, when the thread of his days was spun.
What's the world to you and why should you care for its word, Chris
Blanchard?"

"Because I am Chris Blanchard," she said. "I was gwaine to kill myself,
but thought to see his dear face wance more before I done it. Now--"

"Kill yourself! God's mercy! 'T will be killing Clem again if you do!
You caan't; you wouldn't dare; theer's black damnation in it an' flat
murder now. Hear me, for Christ's sake, if that's the awful thought in
you: you'm God's chosen tool in this--chosen to suffer an' bring a bwoy
in the world--Clem's bwoy. Doan't you see how't is? 'Kill yourself'! How
can 'e dream it? You've got to bring a bwoy, I tell 'e, to keep us from
both gwaine stark mad. 'T was foreordained he should leave his holy
likeness. God's truth! You should be proud 'stead o' fearful--such a man
as he was. Hold your head high an' pray when none's lookin', pray
through every wakin' hour an' watch yourself as you'd watch the case of
a golden jewel. What wise brain will think hard of you for followin' the
chosen path? What odds if a babe's got ringless under the stars or in a
lawful four-post bed? Who married Adam an' Eve? You was the wife of un
'cordin' to the first plan o' the livin' God; an' if He changed His
lofty mind when't was tu late, blame doan't fall on you or the dead.
Think of a baaby--his baaby--under your breast! Think of meetin' him in
time to come, wi' another soul got in sheer love! Better to faace the
people an' let the bairn come to fulness o' life than fly them an' cut
your days short an' go into the next world empty-handed. Caan't you see
it? What would Clem say? He'd judge you hard--such a lover o' li'l
childer as him. 'T is the first framework of an immortal soul you've got
unfoldin', like a rosebud hid in the green, an' ban't for you to nip
that life for your awn whim an' let the angels in heaven be fewer by
wan. You must live. An' the bwoy'll graw into a tower of strength for
'e--a tower of strength an' a glass belike wheer you'll see Clem rose
again."

"The shame of it. My mother and Will--Will who's a hard judge, an' such
a clean man."

"'Clean'! Christ A'mighty! You'd madden a saint of heaven! Weern't Clem
clean, tu? If God sends fire-fire breaks out--sweet, livin' fire. You
must go through with it--aye, an'