had evaporated; an habitual indifference strengthened,
permeating him. He turned his dark, young face toward the transparent,
green afterglow; the firm eyebrows drawn up at the temples, sombre eyes
set, too, at a slight angle, a straight nose, impatient mouth and
projecting chin. Below him, and to the left, a heavy, dark flame and
silvery smoke were rolling from the stack of Shadrach Furnace. Figures
were moving obscurely over the way that led from the coal house, set on
the hill, to the top and opening of the furnace; finishing, Howat Penny
knew, the charge of charcoal, limestone and iron ore.

Shadrach Furnace had been freshly set in blast; it was on that account
he was there, to represent, in a way, his father, who owned a half
interest in the Furnace. However, he had paid little attention to the
formality; his indifference was especially centred on the tedious
processes of iron making, which had, at the same time, made his family.
He had gone far out from the Furnace tract into an utterly uninhabited
and virginal region, where he had shot at, and missed, an impressive
buck and killed a small bear. Now, that he had returned, his apathy once
more flooded him; but he had eaten nothing since morning, and he was
hungry.

He could go home, over the nine miles of road that bound the Furnace to
Myrtle Forge and the Penny dwelling; there certain of whatever supper he
would elect. But, he decided, he preferred something now, less formal.
There were visitors at Myrtle Forge, Abner Forsythe, who owned the other
half of Shadrach, his son David, newly back from England and the study
of metallurgy, and a Mr. Winscombe, come out to the Provinces in
connection with the Maryland boundary dispute, accompanied by his wife.
All this Howat Penny regarded with profound distaste; necessary social
and conversational forms repelled him. And it annoyed his father when he
sat, apparently morose, against the wall, or retired solitary to his
room.

He would get supper here; they would be glad to have him at the house of
Peter Heydrick, the manager of the Furnace. Half turning, he could see
the dwelling at his back--a small, grey stone rectangle with a narrow
portico on its solid face and a pale glimmer of candles in the lower
windows. The ground immediately about it was cleared of brush and little
trees, affording Peter Heydrick a necessary, unobstructed view of the
Furnace stack while sitting in his house or when aroused at night. The
dwelli