Whatever had been the cause of disagreement between Madam Crewe and her granddaughter, Martha noticed that a negative peace, at least, had been restored by the time she had occasion to go to Crewesmere again. "And so you’ve been aiding and abetting a run-away girl, eh?" the old lady accosted her sharply. Mrs. Slawson had almost forgotten the Ellen Hinckley episode, in the quick succession of events nearer home. "You mean——" she pondered. "You know perfectly well what I mean. The Hinckley girl. You assisted her to make her escape from that Buller brute. I hope you thought well, before you took the risk." "Risk?" repeated Martha. "Yes, _risk_. Evidently you don’t know the difference between courage and recklessness." "No’m, I don’t. But I’ll look’m up in the dickshunerry." Madam Crewe brought her teeth together with a snap. "Slawson, you’re a strange specimen. I sometimes wonder if you’re _plus_ or _minus_. You certainly are not a simple equation, that’s sure." Martha smiled. "Speakin’ o’ the Hinckley girl—Ellen—I’d a letter from the uncle she went to, sayin’ she landed there safe an’ sound. So _she’s_ off’n my mind." "And Buller?" "He never was on it. _I_ don’t mind _him_. His name ought to been spelled with a Y ’stead of the R. Them kind’s never dangerous." "Well, I hope not. All the same, I wish you’d kept your finger out of that pie for your own safety’s sake." Martha laughed. "I got two good fists of my own with me, that shoots out fine when required. Warranted to hit the bull’s eye every time. I used to tell my husband, when we lived down in the city, I was afraid I might be arrested for carryin’ unconcealed weapons." Madam Crewe’s stern little visage did not relax. "You’d need a more effective weapon than your two fists, if you had Buller to deal with," she said. "I’ve a mind to give you my son’s revolver. Will you take it?" Martha drew back quickly. "No’m, thank you, bein’ much obliged, all the same. My husband an’ me, we don’t believe in settlin’ disputes that way. Shootin’, be it by one, or be it by many, is murder, an’ nothin’ else. I’d like to put a stop to it, if I could. I’m dead set against it. They talk about puttin’ a stop to war, an’ some says you couldn’t do it. But you _could_ do it. If every man who was ’listed, just crossed his arms, an’ said respectful but firm: ’No, siree! Not on your life I won’t shoot!’ an’ stuck to his word—where’d they get their armies? You can’t _square_ anythin’ with _round_ bullets. I wouldn’t mind cuffin’ Buller a good lick or two, but I wouldn’t _shoot_’m. I’ve too much respec’ for my own peace o’ mind." "Well, at least take the precaution to keep off these country roads after nightfall. Get yourself home now. And when you come here again, if it’s at night like this, bring that dog of yours, that you talk so much about, along with you."