His was the responsibility for all--his alone. No one else was to
blame--June not at all. He had taken her from her own life--had
swerved her from the way to which God pointed when she was born.
He had given her everything she wanted, had allowed her to do what
she pleased and had let her think that, through his miraculous
handling of her resources, she was doing it all herself. And the
result was natural. For the past two years he had been harassed
with debt, racked with worries, writhing this way and that,
concerned only with the soul-tormenting catastrophe that had
overtaken him. About all else he had grown careless. He had not
been to see her the last year, he had written seldom, and it
appalled him to look back now on his own self-absorption and to
think how he must have appeared to June. And he had gone on in
that self-absorption to the very end. He had got his license to
marry, had asked Uncle Billy, who was magistrate as well as
miller, to marry them, and, a rough mountaineer himself to the
outward eye, he had appeared to lead a child like a lamb to the
sacrifice and had found a woman with a mind, heart and purpose of
her own.
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