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There were moments of peace only when Ike was in the house. Smooth as he was, Jim’s wife was afraid of him. There was something compelling in his low-toned voice; his presence subdued but did not remove strife.

His silencing of the tumult hardly arose out of any consideration for his wife, but rather from his inability to enjoy his paper while the clamor of war was going on about him.

He was not a tender man, and yet he prided himself on being a very calm and even-tempered man. He kept out of Bill’s way, and considered himself entirely justified in his position regarding the cow-bell. It is doubtful if he would have accepted an apology.

Emma suffered acutely from Mrs. Harkey’s visits. Something mean and wearying went out from her presence, and her sharp, bold face was a constant irritation. Sometimes when she thought herself alone, Emma crawled to the window which looked up the Coolly, toward Sarah’s home, and sat there silently longing to send out a cry for help. But at the sound of Jane Harkey’s step she fled back into bed like a frightened child.

She became more and more childish and more flighty in her thoughts as her time of trial drew near, and she became more subject to her jailer. She grew morbidly silent, and her large eyes were restless and full of pleading.

One day she heard Mrs. Smith talking out in the kitchen.

“How is Emmy to-day, Mrs. Jim?”

“Well, not extry. She ain’t likely to come out as well as usual this time, I don’t think,” was the brutally incautious reply; “she’s pretty well run down, and I wouldn’t be surprised if she had some trouble.”

“I suppose Sarah will be down to help you,” said Mrs. Smith.

“Well, I guess not–not after what she’s told.”

“What has she told?” asked Mrs. Smith, in her sweet and friendly voice.

“Why, she said she wouldn’t set foot in this house if we all died.”

“I never heard her say that, and I don’t believe she ever did say it,” said Mrs. Smith, firmly.

Emma’s heart glowed with a swift rush of affection toward her sister and Mrs. Smith; she wanted to cry out her faith in Sarah, but she dared not.

Mrs. Harkey slammed the oven door viciously. “Well, you can believe it or not, just as you like; I heard her say it.”

“Well, I didn’t, so I can’t believe it.”

When Mrs. Smith came in, Emma was ready to weep, so sweet and cheery was her visitor’s face.

She found no chance to talk with her, however, for Mrs. Harkey kept near them during her visit. Once, while Mrs. Jim ran out to look at the pies, Mrs. Smith whispered: “Don’t you believe what they say about Sarah. She’s just as kind as can be–I know she is. She’s looking down this way every day, and I know she’d come down instanter if you’d send for her. I’m going up that way, and–“

She found no further chance to say anything, but from that moment Emma began to think of letting Sarah know how much she needed her. She planned to hang out the cloth as she used to. She exaggerated its importance in the way of an invalid, until it attained the significance of an act of treason. She felt like a criminal even in thinking about it.

Several times in the night she dreamed she had put the cloth out and that Jim and his wife had seen it and torn it down. She awoke two or three times to find herself sitting up in bed staring out of the window, through which the moon shone and the multitudinous sounds of the mid-summer insects came sonorously.

Once her husband said, “What’s the matter? It seems to me you’d rest better if you’d lay down and keep quiet.” His voice was low enough, but it had a peculiar inflection, which made her sink back into bed by his side, shivering with fear and weeping silently.