it would rather
rest and fall into disorder the way Tenney would let it, if he were here
alone. That was it. He had had enough of threats that made him sick with
the reaction of nervous violence. He had had enough of real violence
that recoiled on himself and made him cower under the shadow of the law.
He was going to turn her out of the house, the baby with her. And he did
not seem to be suffering much over it, now he had made up his mind.
Perhaps, now that the scene of the morning--three together in May
sunshine--had confirmed his ugly doubts, he was relieved to wash his
hands of them both. The phrase came into her mind, and that in itself
startled her more than any fear of him. Wash his hands! How pitiful he
had been that night he washed his hands!

They sat down to dinner together, and though Tira could not eat, she
made pretense of being too busy, getting up from the table for this and
that, and brewing herself a cup of tea. Tenney had coffee left over from
breakfast, and when her tea was done she drank it hastily, standing at
the sink where she could spill a part of it unnoticed. And when dinner
was over he went peaceably away to the knoll again, and she hastily set
the house in order while the baby slept.

When Tenney came home he was quite the same, silent but unmoved, and
after milking he took off his boots by the stove and seemed to doze,
while Tira strained the milk and washed her dishes. She was still sure
that she and the child were to go. When would it be? Would the warning
come quickly? She wanted to leave the waiting house in order, the house
that seemed to know so much more about it all than she did. The fire had
gone down in the stove, but though the night was warm, Tenney still sat
by the hearth, huddled now in his chair, as if he wanted the comforting
of that special spot: the idea of the hearthstone, the beneficence of
man's cooking place. Tira's mind was on the night, the warmth of it, the
moist cool breath bringing the hylas' peeping. It made her melancholy as
spring nights always had, even when she was most happy. She thought of
the willows feathering out on the road to her old home, and how the
sight of them against the sky, that and the distant frogs, made her
throat thick with the clamor of a rising fear. The river road was the
one she would take when she was turned out, even if the willows did look
at her as she went by and lay that moist, cool hand of foreboding on her
heart. She had a pla