It was evident
that a multitude of questions trembled on their lips.

He hoped they would offer an apology or explanation for their conduct and
thereby furnish him with the opportunity for berating them and relieving
his soul of the bitterness that rankled there. To lash somebody, anybody,
with his tongue would have been a solace.

But although Jane faced him defiantly, and Mary and Eliza with
anticipatory timidity, no one of the three spoke. They seemed to be
waiting for him to strike the first blow. Twice he attempted it, assuming
first an injured then an outraged attitude. But on second thought, he
abandoned the attack. After all, what was there to say? Should he rail at
them for asking Lucy to the house?

The fair face with its uplifted eyes came before his vision. No, he was
not sorry the girl had come. Though he must never see her again, must
never speak to her or touch her hand, he was glad he had been vouchsafed
this one glimpse into Paradise.

He might forbid his sisters ever to have anything more to do with her. But
he could not bring himself to do that either. And even suppose he were to
make the demand. Jane might refuse to comply with it. There was mutiny in
her eyes, a mutiny he might not be able to suppress unless he resorted to
drastic measures; and, smarting as he was from the scorn and humiliation
of his recent defeat, he was in no mood to cut himself off from the only
sympathy within his reach by creating a breach between himself and his
sisters.

Therefore he loitered self-consciously before the stove as if to dry his
wet clothing and then ambled across the room, remarking in offhand
fashion:

"It's settin' in for quite a rain."

"Yes, it's a hard shower," Mary ventured, turning a puzzled glance upon
her brother. "We need it though."

"Yes, the ground was like chalk," agreed Martin.

Thrusting his hands into his trousers pockets, he took a few nervous
strides around the room and, prompted by an impulse he could not have
explained, he stopped and absently drew down the window shade on the side
of the kitchen toward the Webster homestead.

"You didn't get any supper after all, did you, Martin?" Jane remarked
presently. "Why don't you let me bring you a piece of fruit cake an' a
glass of milk?"

"It would taste kinder good."

Although he had no wish for the food, the solicitude that accompanied the
suggestion was just then very soothing.

"We could cook you somethin'," Jane said, rising