Susannah was saying, “I wanted to keep baby, Angel, I wanted so much to keep him, but I could not have taught him your way; there was no use telling you that before, for you could not understand.  When you told me that you would go you did not tell me you meant to take baby.  You have the best right to him, dear, he is all yours, but oh! remember—­remember that I will be very lonely—­very lonely—­O Angel.”  There were a few moments of wordless moans and sobs, but she went on clearly enough, “I want you to know, Angel, that I never was disappointed in you—­never disappointed in you, dear; and about my lack of faith—­it would have been no use to tell you before, would it?”

She took her hand from Halsey’s hair and played a moment with the rings of gold on the baby’s head lying on his breast.  She laid her hand upon Halsey’s hands that she had clasped together above the child.  “It is better for you to have baby with you.  I could not have taught him your thoughts.  It is better, dear, isn’t it?”

The earnest inflection of her voice in these interrogations brought so wild a sense of pathos to the Danite’s heart that his eyes filled with tears and brimmed over, but Susannah’s sobs were like a nervous gasping of which she was scarcely conscious, and no hint of tears.

She lightly touched the baby hand that was lying on its father’s shoulder, still grasping the blue blossoms.  “See,” she sobbed, “he has brought his flowers to you; he always loved you best.”

There had been a great silence in the air about them, but now there was again the sound of firing at the distance of about a mile.  The Danite’s pulses leaped, but he did not, because of that, allow himself to speak or move.

Susannah spoke again, resting her hand on Halsey’s brow, “You know, dear, I don’t know whether you and baby are anywhere—­anywhere”; wildly, as if the appalling loneliness of its meaning had flashed upon her dulled brain, she repeated the word.

The Danite’s sympathy rose within him; he staggered forward and bent over her.  “Don’t, ma’am,” he said, “don’t go on talking like that.  I was with my own mother when she died, when I was a little chap, and I know how it is, and you’d much better try to shed tears, ma’am, indeed you had.”

Susannah lifted to him a blank face, disturbed but uncomprehending.

He decided what to do; the thought of action restored him.  He ran with all his might back to the houses, and, finding a pick and spade, came again.  This time, more confident of himself, he had more control over Susannah.

“We must make the grave right here, ma’am, and do you go and gather some flowers to put on it, for we must just put them two away out of sight before the devils come back.  It’s what he would want, you know.”  He pointed to Halsey and repeated the words until she understood.

It even seemed a relief to her then to move about too, and find that there was something she could do, but she did not obey him blindly.  While in a soft place close by he delved with might and main, displacing the earth with incredible speed, Susannah, sobbing all the time, but tearless, went into the waggon and brought out certain things which she chose with care—­a locked box, the best garments belonging to herself, her husband, and child, and the baby’s toys.