“Mother, I’m not angry. I could never be angry with you. I’ll be back this afternoon.” He tightened his arm around her, bent his head, to kiss her full on the lips. “I would never abandon my best beloved.”

She laid her head on his chest. “But you have,” she whispered. “You have left me, over and over. Please tell me, how I can win back your love.”

“Mother—” he said desperately.

“What if it should rain?” she begged, in a small voice like a child’s. “What if the rain should pour down, and the waters rise, and the house begin to float away? All the high hills, that were under the whole heaven, were covered; fifteen cubits upward did the waters prevail; and the mountains were covered . . . and all that was in the dry land died.”

“I won’t let that happen.” Over her starched lace cap his eyes met Abigail’s, and there was a haunted flicker in them—wondering if I saw that kiss?—as if begging her to understand. He looked as if he had neither eaten nor slept properly in many nights. “I didn’t leave you alone the other night, did I? When it started raining, and you were so frightened, I came back.”

“You did,” she whispered. “You held my hand. All flesh died, that moved upon the earth, both of fowl, and of cattle, and of beast, and of every creeping thing that creepeth upon the earth . . .” And she clasped his fingers now, and kissed them with a passion that made Abigail cringe. No wonder the poor man did not feel able to bring a wife into his house. “I could not live without you, now that we are outcasts, exiles, wanderers upon the face of the earth . . .”

“Nor I without you, Mother. Truly, honestly. But I must leave now—”

“Of course, dearest. Just come inside for a moment and see how I’ve embroidered those new pillowcases for your bed, just the way you liked them—”

“You showed me already, Mother, and they’re beautiful.” A note of desperation crept into his voice. “And I’ll see them again when I return. Damnation—”

A young woman emerged from the house, whom Abigail vaguely recognized as the “girl” indispensible to any household in the town, a lanky, broad-shouldered female with a long, rectangular jaw and dirty hair.

“Son!” pleaded Mrs. Hazlitt, suddenly frantic. “Don’t—” She pulled against the grip of the young woman, clutched at her son’s hands, then the lapels of his coat, as he tried to step away; she began to struggle and weep. “Why have you stopped loving me, son? Why won’t you tell me what I’ve done to make you hate me? There is a generation that curseth their father, and doth not bless their mother! There is a generation whose teeth are as swords, and their jaw teeth as knives . . .”