tlement? And what would the settlement be? What was
there--she thought over the enemies she had feared. The crutch: that was
gone. She had made sure of that. The gun: but if it were here she
doubted whether Tenney would dare even look at it again, remembering
that night when he washed at the invisible stain on his hands. A quarter
of an hour had gone in these imaginings, and then she did get up, went
into the kitchen, built her fire, and set the table. But as she moved
about the room, she carried the baby with her, working awkwardly against
his weight and putting him down for a minute only at a time and
snatching him up again at an unexpected sound. Once a robin called just
outside the window, a bold bright note; it might have been the vagabond
robin from Raven's orchard who sang about nests but seemed never to
break off singing long enough to find a straw for one. She caught up the
child from the couch and stood breathless, listening. It seemed as if
the robin knew, and somehow, like Martin, felt like laughing at her.

Tenney was there, at a few minutes after twelve, but dinner was not on
time. He came in, washed his hands at the sink and glanced about him.
The table was set, and Tira, at the stove, the child on her hip, was
trying the potatoes. She did not look at him. If he looked strange, it
seemed to her she might not be able to go on.

"I ain't dished up," she said. "I'm kinder late."

Tenney spoke immediately and his voice sounded merely quiet, not, she
reasoned anxiously, as if he tried to make it so, but just--quiet.

"You ain't washed the breakfast dishes neither. Ain't you feelin' well?"

"Yes," said Tira, "well as common. I left 'em, that's all."

"Oh," said Tenney. "Wanted to git at suthin' else."

She turned and looked at him. Yes, he was different, not paler, nor, as
she had seen him, aflame in a livid way, but different.

"Isr'el," she said, "I never knew 'Gene Martin was goin' to stop here. I
knew no more'n the dead."

"Was that him?" asked Tenney indifferently. "I see somebody stopped. I
thought mebbe 'twas the butcher. Then I remembered he comes of a
Wednesday."

That settled it in her mind. The weekly call of the butcher was as fixed
as church on Sunday. Tenney was playing for something, and she
understood. The moment had come. The house and she both knew it. She was
not sorry, and perhaps, though she had been good to it and kept it in
faithful order, the house was not sorry either. Perhaps