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“Say, Heman,” said Brad, speaking in his ear. “I guess I’ll walk home, so’t you can take in Roxy.”

But Heman had bent his head, and was moving along with the rest, like a man under a burden.

“No,” said he, drearily. “I can’t. You come along.”

His tone was quite conclusive; and Brad, albeit wondering, said no more. The three packed themselves into the pung, and drove away. Heman was conscious of some dull relief in remembering that he need not pass Roxy again on the road, for he heard her voice ring out clearly from a group near the church. He wondered if anybody would go home with her, and whether she minded the dark “spell o’ woods” by the river. No matter! It was of no use. She must get used to her own company.

The Widder was almost torpid from her long sojourn by the stove; but the tingling air roused her at last, and she spoke, though mumblingly, remembering her tooth,–

“Proper nice tunes, wa’n’t they? Was most on ’em new?”

But Brad could not hear, and left it for Heman to answer; and Heman gave his head a little restive shake, and said, “No.” At his own gate, he stopped.

“I guess I won’t car’ you down home,” he said to Brad.

It was only a stone’s-throw, Brad hesitated.

“No, I, didn’t mean for ye to,” answered he, “but I’ll stop an’ help unharness.”

“No,” said Heman, gently. “You better not. I’d ruther do it.” Even a friendly voice had become unbearable in his ears.

So, Brad, stepped down, lifted out his fiddle-case, and said good-night. Heman drove into the yard, and stopped before the kitchen door. He took the reins in one hand, and held out the other to the Widder.

“You be a mite careful o’ your feet,” he said. “That bass-viol slipped a little for’ard when we come down Lamson’s Hill.”

She rose ponderously. She seemed to sway and hesitate; then she set one foot cautiously forward in the pung. There was a rending, crash. The Widder Poll had stepped into the bass-viol. She gave a little scream; and plunged forward.

“My foot’s ketched!” she cried. “Can’t you help me out?”

Heman dropped the reins; he put his hands on her arms, and pulled her forward. He never knew whether she reached the ground on her feet or her knees. Then he pushed past her, where she floundered, and lifted out his darling. He carried it into the kitchen, and lighted the candle, with trembling hands. He drew back the cover. The bass-viol had its mortal wound; he could have laid both fists into the hole. He groaned.

“My God Almighty!” he said aloud.

The Widder Poll had stumbled into the room. She threw back her green veil, and her face shone ivory white under its shadow; her small eyes were starting. She looked like a culprit whom direst vengeance had overtaken at last. At the sound of her step, Heman lifted his hurt treasure, carried it tenderly into his bedroom, and shut the door upon it. He turned about, and walked past her out of the house. The Widder Poll followed him, wringing her mittened hands.

“O Heman!” she cried, “don’t you look like that! Oh, you’ll do yourself some mischief, I know you will!”

But Heman had climbed into the pung, and given Old Gameleg a vicious cut. Swinging out of the yard they went; and the Widder Poll ran after until, just outside the gate, she reflected that she never could overtake him and that her ankles were weak; then she returned to the house, groaning.

Heman was conscious of one thought only: if any man had come home with Roxy, he should kill him with his own hands. He drove on, almost to the vestry, and found no trace of her. He turned about, and, retracing his way, stopped at her mother’s gate, left Old Gameleg, and strode into the yard. There was no light in the kitchen, and only a glimmer in the chamber above. Heman went up to the kitchen door and knocked. The chamber window opened.