She was not looking at the inert thing
on the walk below, but into her father's eyes. He did not, could
not answer. He seemed frozen stiff. She went on in the same dull,
whispered monotone. "I begged him to let me come alone. I begged
him to let me see you first. But he would come. He brought me all
the way from the West and he--he was not afraid of you. You have
done what you said you would do. You did not give him a chance.
And always,--always I have loved you so. You will never know how I
longed to come back and have you kiss me, and pet me, and call me
those silly names you used--"
"What's done, is done," he broke in heavily. "He is dead. It had to
be. I was insane,--mad with all these months of hatred. It is done.
Come,--there is nothing you can do. Come back into the house. I
will carry him in--and wake somebody. Tomorrow they will come and
take me away. They will hang me. I am ready. Let them come. You
must not stand there in the cold, my child."
She toppled forward into his arms, and he lifted her as if she were
a babe and carried her into the house. The collie was whining in
the corner. Windom sat down in the big armchair before the fire,
still holding the girl in his arms. She was moaning weakly. Suddenly
a great, overwhelming fear seized him,--the fear of being hanged!
A long time afterward,--it was after two,--he arose from his knees
beside the lounge and prepared to go out into the night once more.
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