“After that things dragged on like they have a way of doin’. I kep’ on tryin’ to be like a man. But the girl, she seemed to be takin’ it pretty hard. Got stranger and stranger toward me, like as if she didn’t care for me no more. Donahan used to come in often and console her, and she seemed to brighten up at them times—’cause she was always strong on the religion business. That’s what made her so good, I guess.
“But by and by there was goin’ to be another youngster, and I kind of got into the way of whistlin’ again somehow. Got to thinkin’ how it’d be a boy with blue eyes like the one that died. About that time the Factor sent me off on a long trip. Hated to go, but it couldn’t be helped. You’d ought to seen me travel, Hank! Wantin’ to get back, you know; ’feared all the time mebbe she was sick and a-wantin’ me. Made a quick trip—quicker’n most big men could, Hank. And when I come in sight of home, I was that glad that I couldn’t feel my feet and legs achin’.
“It was night when I got back, and I thought I’d just take a peep in at the winder before I went in; light was shinin’ out so home-like. You know how a boy looks a long time at a big, red apple before he eats it; gettin’ his eyes full of it before he fills his belly? That was like me.
“I crep’ up and looked in; winder was raised a little. I could see Donahan inside and he was talkin’ soft and low.
“‘Hope it’ll have blue eyes,’ he was sayin’; ‘blue eyes like mine.’ And that made me love Donahan more, ’cause it was just what I was a-wishin’ myself. Talked along quite a spell, and me watchin’ outside, all the time pityin’ Donahan ’cause he couldn’t never have no little woman like that and a youngster with blue eyes.
“And the talkin’ growed into a mumble and hum like as if I was a-dreamin’ it all in a happy dream; until all to oncet some of the words leaped out of the hum, and stood out clear like so many candle flames a-burnin’ into my head, and a-scorchin’ my backbone, and a-settin’ the whole world afire with bloody light.
“I held onto the winder sill to keep from fallin’ down, and this is what I heard: ‘Sometimes I feel sorry for the pore sheep; and I’ve spent many nights prayin’ to God about it and askin’ him to forgive me. Then when I see you again, it all comes back and the prayers are no more than so many curses. What’d you ever marry that sheep for? Curse the day that I was made a priest!’