He told her the substance of his long interview with Phillips.  He told also of Charles’ coming to Orham, of why and how he took the position in the bank, of his other talks with him—­Winslow.

“And so,” said Jed, in conclusion, “you see, Maud, what a dreadful load the poor young feller’s been carryin’ ever since he came and especially since he—­well, since he found out how much he was carin’ for you.  Just stop for a minute and think what a load ‘twas.  His conscience was troublin’ him all the time for keepin’ the bank job, for sailin’ under false colors in your eyes and your dad’s.  He was workin’ and pinchin’ to pay the two thousand to the man in Middleford.  He had hangin’ over him every minute the practical certainty that some day—­some day sure—­a person was comin’ along who knew his story and then the fat would all be in the fire.  And when it went into that fire he wouldn’t be the only one to be burnt; there would be his sister and Babbie—­and you; most of all, you.”

She nodded.  “Yes, yes, I know,” she cried.  “But why—­oh, why didn’t he come to me and tell me?  Why did he go without a word?  He must have known I would forgive him, no matter what he had done.  It wouldn’t have made any difference, his having been in—­in prison.  And now—­now he may be—­oh, Jed, he may be killed!”

She was sobbing again.  Jed patted her hand.  “We won’t talk about his bein’ killed,” he said stoutly.  “I know he won’t be; I feel it in my bones.  But, Maud, can’t you see why he didn’t come and tell you before he went to enlist?  Suppose he had.  If you care for him so much—­as much as I judge you do—­”

She interrupted.  “Care for him!” she repeated.  “Oh, Jed!”

“Yes, yes, dearie, I know.  Well, then, carin’ for him like that, you’d have told him just what you told me then; that about his havin’ done what he did and havin’ been where he’s been not makin’ any difference.  And you’d have begged and coaxed him to stay right along in the bank, maybe?  Eh?”

“Yes,” defiantly.  Of course I would.  Why not?”

“And your father, would you have told him?”

She hesitated.  “I don’t know,” she said, but with less assurance.  “Perhaps so, later on.  It had all been kept a secret so far, all the whole dreadful thing, why not a little longer?  Besides—­ besides, Father knows how much Charlie means to me.  Father and I had a long talk about him one night and I—­I think he knows.  And he is very fond of Charlie himself; he has said so so many times.  He would have forgiven him, too, if I had asked him.  He always does what I ask.”