let it be so," he said. "But you owe me five years—and a good name."
"I wish to God I could give them back!" she cried, tears streaming down her cheeks. "It was for my child; he was so young."
"It can’t be helped now," he said sighing, and he turned away from her.
"Won’t you forgive me?" she asked bitterly.
"Won’t you give me back those five years?"
"If the child did not need me I would give my life," she answered. "I owe it to you."
Her haggard, hunted face made him sorry; he, too, had suffered.
"It’s all right," he answered gently. "Take care of your child."
Again he moved away from her, and went down the little hill, with a cloud gone from his face that had rested there five years. Once he turned to look back. The woman was gone, but over the prison a flock of pigeons were flying. He took off his hat to them.
Then he went through the town, looking neither to right nor left, and came to his own house, where the summer morning was already entering the open windows, though he had thought to find the place closed and dark.
The Little Chemist’s wife met him in the doorway. She could not speak, nor could he, but he kissed her as he had done when he went condemned to prison. Then he passed on to his own room, and entering, sat down before the open window, and peacefully drank in the glory of a new world. But more than once he choked down a sob rising in his throat.
