Farmer Brand stood irresolute, his purplish underlip twitching. “The Deacon here—such things is more in his line....” “I want you should stay,” said Mrs. Rutledge quietly; and Brand sat down again. A silence fell, during which the four persons present seemed all to be listening for the sound of a step; but none was heard, and after a minute or two Mrs. Rutledge began to speak again. “It’s down by that old shack on Lamer’s pond; that’s where they meet,” she said suddenly. Bosworth, whose eyes were on Sylvester Brand’s face, fancied he saw a sort of inner flush darken the farmer’s heavy leathern skin. Deacon Hibben leaned forward, a glitter of curiosity in his eyes. “They—_who_, Mrs. Rutledge?” “My husband, Saul Rutledge ... and her....” Sylvester Brand again stirred in his seat. “Who do you mean by _her_?” he asked abruptly, as if roused out of some far-off musing. Mrs. Rutledge’s body did not move; she simply revolved her head on her long neck and looked at him. “Your daughter, Sylvester Brand.” The man staggered to his feet with an explosion of inarticulate sounds. “My—my daughter? What the hell are you talking about? My daughter? It’s a damned lie ... it’s ... it’s....” “Your daughter _Ora_, Mr. Brand,” said Mrs. Rutledge slowly. Bosworth felt an icy chill down his spine. Instinctively he turned his eyes away from Brand, and they rested on the mildewed countenance of Deacon Hibben. Between the blotches it had become as white as Mrs. Rutledge’s, and the Deacon’s eyes burned in the whiteness like live embers among ashes. Brand gave a laugh: the rusty creaking laugh of one whose springs of mirth are never moved by gaiety. “My daughter _Ora_?” he repeated. “Yes.” “My _dead_ daughter?” “That’s what he says.” “Your husband?” “That’s what Mr. Rutledge says.” Orrin Bosworth listened with a sense of suffocation; he felt as if he were wrestling with long-armed horrors in a dream. He could no longer resist letting his eyes return to Sylvester Brand’s face. To his surprise it had resumed a natural imperturbable expression. Brand rose to his feet. “Is that all?” he queried contemptuously. “All? Ain’t it enough? How long is it since you folks seen Saul Rutledge, any of you?” Mrs. Rutledge flew out at them. Bosworth, it appeared, had not seen him for nearly a year; the Deacon had only run across him once, for a minute, at the North Ashmore post office, the previous autumn, and acknowledged that he wasn’t looking any too good then. Brand said nothing, but stood irresolute. “Well, if you wait a minute you’ll see with your own eyes; and he’ll tell you with his own words. That’s what I’ve got you here for—to see for yourselves what’s come over him. Then you’ll talk different,” she added, twisting her head abruptly toward Sylvester Brand. The Deacon raised a lean hand of interrogation. “Does your husband know we’ve been sent for on this business, Mrs. Rutledge?” Mrs. Rutledge signed assent. “It was with his consent, then—?”