Pushing back his chair he paced the small room, talking to himself as he walked, pausing to address his sentences to the several articles of furniture,—the chairs, the big table, the kitchen sink, whatever came in his way. It was an old trick of his when alone. “I ain’t a-goin’ to have ’er come home so late no more,” he continued. His voice had sunk to a gentle whisper. “I’m goin’ to tell them folks she works for that they’ve got to let ’er out afore dark, or she shan’t stay.” He was looking now at an old rocker as if it were the shopkeeper himself. “She’ll be so scared arter this she won’t have a minute’s peace. She needn’t worrit herself, though, ’bout that skunk. She’s shut o’ _him_. But there’ll be more of ’em. They all think that now I’ve throwed ’er off they kin do as they’ve a mind to.” He stopped again and gazed down at the floor, seemingly absorbed in a hole in one of the planks. “Cap’n Joe sez I ain’t got no business to throw ’er off. He wouldn’t treat a dog so,—that’s what ye said, cap’n; I ain’t never goin’ to forgit it. _I_ ain’t throwed _her_ off. She throwed _me_ off,—lef’ me here without a word; an’ ye know it, cap’n. Ye want me to take ’er back, do ye?” He spoke with as much earnestness as though the captain stood before him. “S’pose I do, an’ she finds out arter all that her comin’ home was ’cause she was skeared of it all, and that she still loved”— He stopped, reseated himself, and picking up another stick threw it on the fire, snuggling the two together. The sticks, cheered by each other’s warmth, burst into a crackling flame. “Poor little Betty!” he began again aloud. “I’m sorry for ye. Everybody’s agin ye, child, ’cept Cap’n Joe’s folks. I know it hurts ye turrible to have folks look away from ye. Ye always loved to have folks love ye. I ain’t got nothin’ agin ye, child, indeed I ain’t. It was my fault, not yourn. I told Cap’n Joe so; ask him,—he’ll tell ye.” He turned toward the empty chair beside him, as if he saw her sad face there. “I know it’s hard, child,” shaking his head. “Ain’t nobody feels it more ’n me,—ain’t nobody feels it more ’n me. I guess I must take care o’ ye; I guess there ain’t nobody else but me kin do it.” The logs blazed cheerily; the whole room was alight. “I wish ye loved me like ye did onct, little woman,—I wouldn’t want no better happiness; jest me an’ you, like it useter was. I wonder if ye do? No, I know ye don’t.” The last words came with a positive tone.