“It is all because they do not understand,” said David, rising. “I can tell them. When I explain they will understand.” He had, as yet, no definite plan. A letter to the editor of the daily newspaper occurred to him; he might also make a plain statement in the pulpit before his next Sunday sermon, setting himself right with his congregation. In the meanwhile he must show himself on the street; by word of mouth he could explain what the townspeople did not know. He blamed himself for not having explained before. He stood at the window, looking out, and saw Dr. Benedict drive up. The doctor came toward the house. David met him at the door. “Davy,” the doctor said, clasping his hand, “she is dead,” and David knew; he meant Mrs. Hinch. “And Hinch?” “He's taking it hard, Davy. He is in town. He is in that mood of sullen hate again. He will need you--you are the only man that can soften him, Davy. It is hard--we left the girl alone with her dead mother. Some woman is needed there.” 'Thusia had come to the parlor door. “Will I do! Can I go!” she asked. “Yes, and bless you for it!” the doctor exclaimed. “Get in my buggy. You'll come, David!” “Of course! But Hinch--he came to town! Why?” “He had to get the coffin, Davy.” David hurried into his coat. “We must find him at once and get him out of town,” he said. “They're threatening to tar and feather him if he shows his face in town again. We may stop them if we are in time; please God we may stop them!” They found old Hinch's wagon tied opposite the post office. They knew it by the coarse pine coffin that lay in the wagon bed. A crowd--a dozen or more men--stood before the bulletin board watching the postmaster post a new bulletin and, as David leaped from the buggy, the men cheered, for the tide had turned and the news was news of victory. As they cheered, old Hinch came out of the post office. He had in his right hand the hickory club he always carried and in the left a letter, doubled over and crushed in his gnarled fingers. He leaned his weight on the club. All the strength seemed gone out of his bent body. Someone saw him and shouted “Here's the Copperhead!” and before David could reach his side the crowd had gathered around old Hinch. The old man stood in the doorway, under the flag that hung limply from its pole. His fingers twitched as they grasped the letter in his hand. He glared through his long eyebrows like an angry animal. “Kill the Copperhead!” someone shouted and an arm shot out to grasp the old man. “Stop!” David cried. He struggled to fight his way to Hinch, but the old man, maddened out of all reason, raised his club above his head. It caught in the edge of the flag above his head and he uttered a curse--not at the flag, not at his tormentors, but at war and all war had done to him. The knotted end of the club caught the margin of the flag and tore the weather-rotten fabric.