“It was that drunken old scoundrel of a Morrison who began it!” cried Bartley, in angry desperation. Marcia dropped her hand from his shoulder, while her father worked his jaws upon the bit of stick he had picked up from the pile of wood, and put between his teeth. “You know that whenever he gets on a spree he comes to the office and wants Hannah's wages raised.” Marcia sprang to her feet. “Oh, I knew it! I knew it! I told you she would get you into trouble! I told you so!” She stood clinching her hands, and her father bent his keen scrutiny first upon her, and then upon the frowning face with which Bartley regarded her. “Did he come to have her wages raised to-day?” “No.” “What did he come for?” He involuntarily assumed the attitude of a lawyer crossquestioning a slippery witness. “He came for--He came--He accused me of--He said I had--made love to his confounded girl.” Marcia gasped. “What made him think you had?” “It wasn't necessary for him to have any reason. He was drunk. I had been kind to the girl, and favored her all I could, because she seemed to be anxious to do her work well; and I praised her for trying.” “Um-umph,” commented the Squire. “And that made Henry Bird jealous?” “It seems that he was fond of her. I never dreamed of such a thing, and when I put old Morrison out of the office, and came back, he called me a liar, and struck me in the face.” He did not lift his eyes to the level of Marcia's, who in her gray dress stood there like a gray shadow, and did not stir or speak. “And you never had made up to the girl at all?” “No.” “Kissed her, I suppose, now and then?” suggested the Squire. Bartley did not reply. “Flattered her up, and told how much you thought of her, occasionally?” “I don't see what that has to do with it,” said Bartley with a sulky defiance. “No, I suppose it's what you'd do with most any pretty girl,” returned the Squire. He was silent awhile. “And so you knocked Henry down. What happened then?” “I tried to bring him to, and then I went for the doctor. He revived, and we got him home to his mother's. The doctor says he will get well; but he advised me to come and see you.” “Any witnesses of the assault?” “No; we were alone in my own room.” “Told any one else about it?” “I told the doctor and Mrs. Bird. Henry couldn't remember it at all.” “Couldn't remember about Morrison, or what made him mad at you?” “Nothing.” “And that's all about it?” “Yes.” The two men had talked across the stove at each other, practically ignoring the girl, who stood apart from them, gray in the face as her dress, and suppressing a passion which had turned her as rigid as stone. “Now, Marcia,” said her father, kindly, “better go into the house. That's all there is of it.” “No, that isn't all,” she answered. “Give me my ring, Bartley. Here's yours.” She slipped it off her finger, and put it into his mechanically extended hand. “Marcia!” he implored, confronting her. “Give me my ring, please.”