axe the dim silences of her wood lot, enjoying the fruit of her
orchard, driving his herds into her pasture! Fancy his feet grating upon
the threshold of her home, his tread vibrating on her stairways! The
irony of it!

Martin was young. At least, he was not old. He could not be more than
forty. He might marry sometime. Many a man more unapproachable even than
Martin Howe did marry.

And if he should marry, what would be more likely than that he would give
to his maiden sisters--Mary, Eliza, and Jane--the Howe farm and take for
his own abode the more spacious homestead of the Websters?

Ellen's brows contracted fiercely; then her mouth twisted into a crooked
smile.

What a retribution if, after all, it should be Martin whose fate it was to
rebuild the wall! Why, such a revenge would almost compensate for the
property falling into his hands! Suppose it should become his lot to cut
away the vines and underbrush; haul hither the great stones and hoist them
into place! And if while he toiled at the hateful task and beads of sweat
rolled from his forehead, a sympathetic and indulgent Providence would but
permit her to come back to earth and, standing at his elbow, jeer at him
while he did it! Ah, that would be revenge indeed!

Then the mocking light suddenly died from the old woman's eyes. Maybe
Martin would not buy the farm, after all.

Or if he did, he might perhaps leave the wall to crumble into extinction,
so that the rancor and bitterness of the Howes and Websters would come to
an end, and the enmity of a hundred years be wasted!

Would not such an inglorious termination of the feud go down to history as
a capitulation of the Websters? Why, the broil had become famous
throughout the State. For decades it had been a topic of gossip and
speculation until the Howe and Webster obstinacy had become a byword,
almost an adage. To have the whole matter peter out now would be
ignominious.

No. Though worms destroyed her mortal body, the hostility bred between the
families should not cease. Nor should her ancestral home ever become the
prey of her enemies, either.

Rising decisively, Ellen took from the mahogany secretary the letter she
had received a few days before from Thomas's daughter and reread it
meditatively.

Twice she scanned its pages. Then she let it drop into her lap. Again her
eyes wandered to the stretch of land outside across which slanted the
afternoon shadows.

The day was very still. Up from the t