A panorama of colors flamed over Bart’s face; his hands clenched till the nails cut into the flesh and the blood spurted; who has seen the look in the eyes of the lion that cowers and obeys under the terrible lash of the trainer will know the look that was in the man’s eyes while the lash of his own will conquered him; his broad chest swelled and sunk. At last he spoke, in a deep, shaking voice. “Billy,” he said, “you’re a liar—a liar! _Damn you!_” He struggled a moment longer with himself, and then turned and hurried away as if possessed of the devil. But Billy followed him to the door and called after him—“Oh, damn me, aigh? Now, I don’t want I sh’u’d have a fight with you, Bart. I was tryin’ to do you a favor. If you think I’m a liar, it’s a mighty easy thing for you to go down there to-night an’ see for yourself. That’s all _I_ ask.” Bart went on in a passion of contending emotions. “He’s a liar! He’s a liar!” he kept saying, deep in his throat; but all the time he had the odd feeling that somebody, or something, was contradicting him. A warm wind had arisen, and it beat against his temples so persistently that they felt numb by the time he reached the Vaiden’s. He cleaned his boots on the neat mat of gunny-sacking laid at the door for that purpose, and entered the kitchen. “Where’s Laviny?” he asked. “She’s upstairs with a headache,” replied Mrs. Vaiden, promptly. “It must ’a’ come on sudden.” “Yes, I guess it must.” Mrs. Vaiden spoke cautiously. She was sure there had been a quarrel, and she was afraid her own remark, overheard by Bart, had brought it on. “Well, I want to see her.” “Right away?” “Yes,” said Bart, after a little hesitation, “right away, I reckon.” Mrs. Vaiden went upstairs, and returned presently, followed by Lavinia. The girl looked pale; a white kerchief bound about her brow increased her pallor; her eyes were red. She sat down weakly in a splint-bottom chair and crossed her hands in her lap. At sight of the girl’s suffering, Bart knew instantly that he had been doubting her without realizing it, because his faith in her came back with such a strong rush of tenderness. “Sick, Laviny?” he asked, in a tone that was a caress of itself—it was so very gentle a thing to come from so powerful a man. “I got a headache,” said Lavinia, looking at the floor. “It came on right after you left. It aches awful.” Bart went to her and laid his hand on her shoulder. It was a strong hand to be shaking so. “Laviny, I’m a brute to get you up out o’ bed; but I’m more of a brute to ’a’ believed”—He stopped, and she lifted her eyes, fearfully, to his face. “I’ve been listenin’ to things about you.” “What things?” She looked at the floor again.