in the checked apron.

"Dad 'lowed," continued Medora, "ez Peter Petrie hev persecuted and druv
him ter the wall. Fust he tricked Dad out 'n some unoccupied lan' what
Dad hed begun ter clear, an' Petrie got it entered fust an' tuk out a
grant an' holds the title! An' whenst Dad lay claim ter it Peter Petrie
declared ef enny Gilhooley dared ter cross Storm Mounting he'd break
every bone in his body!"

"A true word--the insurance of the critter!" came from the blue-checked
veil.

A stir in the shed-room---a half-suppressed cough and a clearing of the
throat. "An' then Dad fell on Pete Petrie at the Crossroads' store, whar
the critter hed stopped with his mail-pouch, an' Dad trounced him well
afore all the crowd o' loafers thar!"

"Bless the Lord, he did!" the checked apron voiced a melancholy triumph.

"An' then, ye remember whenst Dad set out fire in the woods las' fall
ter burn off the trash on his own lan', the flames run jes' a leetle
over his line an' on ter them woods on Storm Mounting, doin' no harm ter
nobody, nor nuthin'!"

"Not a mite--not a mite," asseverated the apron.

"An' ez sech appears ter be agin the law Petrie gin information an' Dad
war fined five dollars!"

"An' paid it!" cried Jane Gilhooley. "Ye know that!"

"An' then, ez it 'pears ter be the law ez one hundred dollars fur sech
an offense is ter be forfeited ter ennybody ez will sue fur it," Medora
resumed, "Petrie seen his chance ter git even fur bein' beat in a
reg'lar knock-down-an'-drag-out fight, an'," with the rising inflection
of a climax, "he hev sued and got jedgmint!"

"An' so what that half-drunk dep'ty, Clem Tweed, calls an execution war
leveled!" exclaimed Jane Gilhooley, her veiled head swaying forlornly as
she sobbed invisibly.

"But Dad 'lowed ez Peter Petrie shouldn't hev none o' his gear,"
Medora's eyes flashed with a responsive sentiment.

"His gran'mam's warpin' bars!" suggested the elder woman.

"The spinnin'-wheels she brung from No'th Carliny," enumerated Medora,
"the loom an' the candle-moulds."

"The cheers his dad made fur his mam whenst they begun housekeeping"
said Jane Gilhooley's muffled voice.

"The press an' the safe," Medora continued.

"The pot an' the oven," chokingly responded the apron.

"The churn an' the piggins!"

"The skillet an' the trivet!"

Medora, fairly flinching from the inventory of all the household goods,
so desecrated and "leveled on," returned to the salient incident of
the