The stove was serene and of good conscience. It labored joyously in response to the clean-souled wind. For a moment, while the trader watched the snow through his bushy brows and Jehoshaphat Rudd hopelessly scratched his head, its hearty, honest roar was the only voice lifted in the little office at the back of John Wull’s shop. “An’ why?” Jehoshaphat timidly asked. “Scarcity.” “Oh,” said Jehoshaphat, as though he understood. He paused. “Isn’t you got as much as you _had?_” he inquired. The trader nodded. “Isn’t you got enough in the storehouse t’ last till the mail-boat runs?” “Plenty, thank God!” “Scarcity,” Jehoshaphat mused. “Mm-m-m! Oh, I _sees_,” he added, vacantly. “Well, Mister Wull,” he sighed, “I ’low I’ll take one of Early Rose an’ pay the rise.” Wull whistled absently. “Early Rose,” Jehoshaphat repeated, with a quick, keen glance of alarm. The trader frowned. “Rose,” Jehoshaphat muttered. He licked his lips. “Of Early,” he reiterated, in a gasp, “Rose.” “All right, Jehoshaphat.” Down came the big key from the nail. Jehoshaphat’s round face beamed. The trader slapped his ledger shut, moved toward the door, but stopped dead, and gazed out of the window, while his brows fell over his eyes, and he fingered the big key. “Gone up t’ eighteen,” said he, without turning. Jehoshaphat stared aghast. “Wonderful high for flour,” the trader continued, in apologetic explanation; “but flour’s wonderful scarce.” “Tisn’t _right!_” Jehoshaphat declared. “Eighteen dollars a barrel for Early Rose? ’Tisn’t right!” The key was restored to the nail. “I can’t pay it, Mister Wull. No, no, man, I can’t do it. Eighteen! Mercy o’ God! ’Tisn’t right! ’Tis too _much_ for Early Rose.” The trader wheeled. “An’ I _won’t_ pay it,” said Jehoshaphat. “You don’t have to,” was the placid reply. Jehoshaphat started. Alarm—a sudden vision of his children—quieted his indignation. “But, Mister Wull, sir,” he pleaded, “I got t’ have it. I—why—I just _got_ t’ have it!” The trader was unmoved. “Eighteen!” cried Jehoshaphat, flushing. “Mercy o’ God! I says ’tisn’t right.” “Tis the price.” “’Tisn’t right!” Wull’s eyes were how flashing. His lips were drawn thin over his teeth. His brows had fallen again. From the ambush they made he glared at Jehoshaphat. “I say,” said he, in a passionless voice, “that the price o’ flour at Satan’s Trap is this day eighteen.” Jehoshaphat was in woful perplexity. “Eighteen,” snapped Wull. “Hear me?” They looked into each other’s eyes. Outside the storm raged, a clean, frank passion; for nature is a fair and honest foe. In the little office at the back of John Wull’s shop the withered body of the trader shook with vicious anger. Jehoshaphat’s round, brown, simple face was gloriously flushed; his head was thrown back, his shoulders were squared, his eyes were sure and fearless. “’Tis robbery!” he burst out.