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“Lovely, ain’t it! An’ I‘ve got to see it all day long. I can’t look out the winder but that thing’s right in my face.” It seemed to make her savage. She hadn’t been in such a temper since her visit to New York. “I hope you feel satisfied with it.”

Ripley walked off to the barn. His pride in its clean, sweet newness was gone. ‘He slyly tried the paint to see if it couldn’t be scraped off, but it was dried in thoroughly. Whereas before he had taken delight in having his neighbors turn and look at the building, now he kept out of sight whenever he saw a team coming. He hoed corn away in the back of the field, when he should have been bugging potatoes by the roadside.

Mrs. Ripley was in a frightful mood about it, but she held herself in check for several days. At last she burst forth:

“Ethan Ripley, I can’t stand that thing any longer, and I ain’t goin’ to, that’s all! You’ve got to go and paint that thing out, or I will. I’m just about crazy with it.”

“But, mother, I promised “—-

“I don’t care what you promised, it’s got to be painted out. I’ve got the nightmare now, seem’ it. I’m goin’ to send f’r a pail o’ red paint, and I’m goin’ to paint that out if it takes the last breath I’ve got to do it.”

“I’ll tend to it, mother, if you won’t hurry me”—-

“I can’t stand it another day. It makes me boil every time I look out the winder.”

Uncle Ethan hitched up his team and drove gloomily off to town, where he tried to find the agent. He lived in some other part of the county, however, and so the old man gave up and bought a pot of red paint, not daring to go back to his desperate wife without it.

“Goin’ to paint y’r new barn?” inquired the merchant, with friendly interest.

Uncle Ethan turned with guilty sharpness; but the merchant’s face was grave and kindly.

“Yes, I thought I’d touch it up a little–don’t cost much.”

“It pays–always,” the merchant said emphatically.

“Will it–stick jest as well put on evenings?” inquired Uncle Ethan, hesitatingly.

“Yes–won’t make any difference. Why? Ain’t goin’ to have”—-

“Waal,–I kind o’ thought I’d do it odd times night an’ mornin.’–kind o’ odd times”—-

He seemed oddly confused about it, and the merchant looked after him anxiously as he drove away.

After supper that night he went out to the barn, and Mrs. Ripley heard him sawing and hammering. Then the noise ceased, and he came in and sat down in his usual place.

“What y’ ben makin’?” she inquired. Tewksbury had gone to bed. She sat darning a stocking.

“I jest thought I’d git the stagin’ ready f’r paintin’,” he said, evasively.

“Waal! I’ll be glad when it’s covered up.” When she got ready for bed, he was still seated in his chair, and after she had dozed off two or three times she began to wonder why he didn’t come. When the clock struck ten, and she realized that he had not stirred, she began to get impatient. “Come, are y’ goin’ to sit there all night?” There was no reply. She rose up in bed and looked about the room. The broad moon flooded it with light, so that she could see he was not asleep in his chair, as she had supposed. There was something ominous in his disappearance.

“Ethan! Ethan Ripley, where are yeh?” There was no reply to her sharp call. She rose and distractedly looked about among the furniture, as if he might somehow be a cat and be hiding in a corner somewhere. Then she went upstairs where the boy slept, her hard little heels making a curious tunking noise on the bare boards. The moon fell across the sleeping boy like a robe of silver. He was alone.

She began to be alarmed. Her eyes widened in fear. All sorts of vague horrors sprang unbidden into her brain. She still had the mist of sleep in her brain.