In the hall he met his wife. She had a tired, anxious look on her face, which seemed flushed by the heat of the cooking-stove, over which she had been working. “Have the cows come up?” he asked her. “Yes.” She glanced at him timidly. “Mother is down attendin' to the milkin' with Dilly. I'm watchin' the meat in the stove.” “You'd better take it up as soon as it's good done,” he said. “I don't want supper to be late ag'in--not to-night, anyway. I've got to ride out to see a man that's got a lot o' land to sell.” “It's about done,” she answered, wearily, “an' I'll take it up an' set the table.” He passed on to the kitchen, filled a dipper with water from the pail, and drank; then he returned to the front veranda and sat down in a latticed corner, over which honeysuckles climbed. He removed his coat, for the air was close and hot. He opened the bosom of his moist shirt, and fanned his face, big neck, and hairy chest with his hat. He was upset, dissatisfied, angry. So many things had gone contrary to his wishes. Why had he allowed Silas Tye to talk to him in such a vein? Why had he not defended the worthy principle he and his followers stood for? What could an ignorant shoemaker know of such grave and important issues? Then there was the memory of Jeff Warren's grimly determined mouth, set jaws, and flaming eyes, as he stood placidly demanding satisfaction of him--_of him_. Hoag's rage ran through him like streams of liquid fire, the glow of which hung before his eyes like a mist of flame. Why had he not--he clenched his brawny fist and the muscles of his arm drew taut--why had he not beaten the insolent fellow's face to a pulp for daring to talk of satisfaction to him? The man, even now, was perhaps recounting what had happened in his stoical, inconsequential way, and there were some persons--_some_, at least--who would think that the apology was the last resort of a coward. Men who didn't really know him might fancy such to be the case. Yes, he must have it out with Warren. Some day--before long, too--he would call him down publicly on some pretext or other in which a woman's fame was not involved, and prove himself to others and, yes--to himself. There was a soft step in the hallway behind him. It was his wife. He felt rather than saw her presence in the doorway. “What is it--what is it?” he demanded, impatiently. He heard her catch her breath, and knew the delay in replying was due to habitual timidity. He repeated his question fiercely, for there was satisfaction in being stern to some one after the humiliating manner in which he had received Warren. “You say you are goin' out after supper?” she faltered. “I hope you ain't goin' far, because--”