At that moment the man Oscar entered the room. He uttered a note of admiration which made Patience turn about sharply. He was gazing upon Mrs. Sparhawk’s enhanced charms with an expression which Patience did not understand, but which filled her with sudden fury. “Here!” she exclaimed roughly, “go into the dining room until supper’s ready. This kitchen ain’t big enough for three.” The man moved his eyes and regarded her angrily. “Who’s boss here?” he demanded. “It’s not your place to ask questions. You’re hired to work outside, and when you come into this house there’s only one place for you. Now go into the other room.” Her eyes were flashing, and she had drawn up her shoulders. The man backed away from her much as dogs do when cats give warning. “That girl gives me a chill. I hate her,” he muttered to his mistress. Mrs. Sparhawk gave a loud laugh which covered her embarrassment, and slapped him heartily on the shoulder. “Go in, go in,” she said. “What’s the use of family quarrels?” The man slunk away, and Patience went about her work with vicious energy. She fried liver and baked biscuits while her mother stirred the steaming cherries and brewed tea. When supper was ready she filled Oscar’s plate first and served him last, not hating herself in the least for her spite and spleen. After Mrs. Sparhawk had taken her place at the head of the table even her exuberant beauty could not dispel the frown on the hired man’s brow, until, to Patience’s disgust, she divined the cause of his surliness, and deftly exchanged her plate for his. VII That night Patience did not go to her tower, but wandered over the dark fields, a drooping forlorn little figure in the crawling shadows. She felt dull and tired and disheartened. By nine o’clock she was asleep. She awoke as fresh as the morning. When Mr. Foord returned from San Francisco in the afternoon he found her curled in the easy-chair by his fire. She started guiltily as he entered, then tossed her head defiantly, let Byron slide to the floor, and went forward to kiss him. As he was about to take the chair she had occupied he espied the fallen volume. He lifted it hastily. “What is this?” he demanded. Patience blushed furiously, but set her lips with an expression he understood. “It’s Byron, and I’m going to read it all. I’ve read a lot.” He shifted the book from one hand to the other for a moment, his face much perturbed. Finally he laid it on the table, merely remarking: “Sooner or later, sooner or later.”