David answered by laughing outright, a pleasant sound, not guiltless of
a suggestion of sleep, a laugh of good nature that refuses to abdicate.
It brushed her back into herself as if he had taken her by the
shoulders, pushed her into her prison, and slammed the door.
"That's all imagination," he said. "When some one we love dies we're
always thinking things like that--that we neglected them, or slighted
them, or told them what wasn't true. They stand out in our memories
bigger than all the good things we did. Don't you worry about any lies
you ever told your father. You've got nothing to accuse yourself of
where he's concerned--or anybody else, either."
Her heart, that had throbbed wildly as she thought to begin her
confession, sunk back to a forlorn beat. He noticed her dejected air,
and said comfortingly:
"Don't be downhearted, Missy. It's been terribly hard for you, but
you'll feel better when we get to California, and can live like
Christians again."
"California!" Her intonation told of the changed mind with which she
now looked forward to the Promised Land.
His consolatory intentions died before his own sense of grievance at
the toil yet before them.
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