“But we can’t!  Oh, Mr. Winslow, we can’t do that.”

“I know ’twill be awful hard for you.  But, when I talked to Sam about my havin’ a possible candidate for the bank place, the very last thing he said was that he’d be glad to see him providin’ his references was all right.  I give you my word I’d never thought of references, not till then.”

“But if we tell him—­tell him everything, we shall only make matters worse, shan’t we?  Of course he won’t give him the position then.”

“There’s a chance he won’t, that’s true.  But Sam Hunniwell’s a fine feller, there ain’t any better, and he likes you and—­well, he and I have been cruisin’ in company for a long spell.  Maybe he’ll give your brother a chance to make good.  I hope he will.”

“You only hope?  I thought you said you believed.”

“Well, I do, but of course it ain’t sartin.  I wish ’twas.”

She was silent.  Jed, watching her, saw the last traces of happiness and elation fade from her face and disappointment and discouragement come back to take their places.  He pitied her, and he yearned to help her.  At last he could stand it no longer.

“Now, Mrs. Armstrong,” he pleaded, “of course—­”

She interrupted.

“No,” she said, as if coming to a final decision and speaking that decision aloud:  “No, I can’t do it.”

“Eh?  Can’t do—­what?”

“I can’t have Captain Hunniwell know of our trouble.  I came here to Orham, where no one knew me, to avoid that very thing.  At home there in Middleford I felt as if every person I met was staring at me and saying, ‘Her brother is in prison.’  I was afraid to have Babbie play with the other children.  I was—­but there, I won’t talk about it.  I can’t.  And I cannot have it begin again here.  I’ll go away first.  We will all go away, out West, anywhere—­ anywhere where we can be—­clean—­and like other people.”

Jed was conscious of a cold sensation, like the touch of an icicle, up and down his spine.  Going away!  She and Babbie going away!  In his mind’s eye he saw a vision of the little house closed once more and shuttered tight as it used to be.  He gasped.

“Now, now, Mrs. Armstrong,” he faltered.  “Don’t talk about goin’ away.  It—­it isn’t needful for you to do anything like that.  Of course it ain’t.  You—­you mustn’t.  I—­we can’t spare you.”

She drew a long breath.  “I would go to the other end of the world,” she said, “rather than tell Captain Hunniwell the truth about my brother.  I told you because Babbie had told you so much already. . . .  Oh,” turning swiftly toward him, “You won’t tell Captain Hunniwell, will you?”

Before he could answer she stretched out her hand.  “Oh, please forgive me,” she cried.  “I am not myself.  I am almost crazy, I think.  And when you first told me about the position in the bank I was so happy.  Oh, Mr. Winslow, isn’t there some way by which Charles could have that chance?  Couldn’t—­couldn’t he get it and—­ and work there for—­for a year perhaps, until they all saw what a splendid fellow he was, and then tell them—­if it seemed necessary?  They would know him then, and like him; they couldn’t help it, every one likes him.”