ong black
aperture in the dusk which betokened the open door of the shed-room.
Some one lurked there, evidently cherishing all aloof a grief, an anger,
a despair too poignant to share.

"Dad warn't hyar whenst the dep'ty leveled," she said. "An' mighty glad
we war--kase somebody mought hev got hurt. But whenst Dad kem home an'
larnt the news he jes'--he jes'--he jes' lept about like a painter."

"He did! He did!" asseverated a voice from the veiled head, all muffled
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,"