Here on the avenue in Washington, she was merely disregarding him. For the first time in their days together, she seemed to be almost happy. That, he settled the matter, was because she was so soon to be free of him. There came upon him, for the hundredth time, the memory of her reason for coming to him in her need— “I didn’t know no woman I could tell—nor no other decent man.” It was the supreme compliment of his life—it was his justification. And how had he rewarded it.... Suddenly he felt her hand on his arm, and when he turned, she was looking away and before them. He followed her eyes and saw the white dome. “It’s it,” she said, reverently. “Yes,” he said. “It’s it, sure enough.” They walked on, staring at it. All that could be in the heart of a people all the time was in their faces for the meaning of it. In a little back street, ugly save for its abundant shade, they came to the home of Lory’s aunt. It was a chubby house, with bright eyes, and the possibilities, never developed, of a smile. There were a small, smothered yard, and an over-ripe fence, and the evidences of complete discouragement on the part of the house to distinguish itself from its neighbors, all made in the same mint. A woman with an absorbed look answered the door; when she saw them, she slightly opened her mouth, but the absorbed look did not leave her eyes. “For evermore,” she said. “It’s Lory Moor. And I ain’t a thing in the house to eat.” The girl kissed her, and the woman suffered it, not without interest, but still in that other absorption, and led them into the house. “How’d you ever come to come?” she said. “I _have_ got some fresh baked bread, if that’ll do you.” And at Lory’s protest, “This your husband?” her aunt asked. “Well, I’ll tell you what, we can send _him_ to the bakery.” With this the Inger took matters in his own hands. There was something epic in his description. “Miss Moor’s husband that was going to be,” he said, “is Mr. Bunchy Haight, a saloon keeper in Inch. She’s run away from him on her weddin’ night. And I’ve brought her to you. Wasn’t that right?” “My gracious,” said her aunt. “It’s just till I get a job,” Lory put in. “Was I right to come, Aunt ’Cretia?” “Why, of course so, of course so,” said her aunt. “Jem Moor always was a weak fool. Can you make biscuits?” Lory nodded. “Then we’ll have biscuits and honey for supper,” she arranged it, and the principal thing settled: “How _is_ Jem?” she said, and then took account of her niece’s presence with “How you have grown!” In a little while they went out to the kitchen. And there the plump complacence of the little house gave way, and they stood facing its tragedy. As they entered, a chain rattled and drew across the zinc under the cooking-stove. An old man got to his feet, and one of his legs was chained to the leg of the wooden settle. He must have been eighty. His gray beard half covered his face. He stood with his head forward, and watched them immovably.