Between the woman, who went on with her work as though no one had come into the room, and the silent smiling youth, Hugh Garth prowled the floor like a shadow thrown by a moving light. He was a man of forty-five, gray-haired, misshapen, heavy above the waist and light to meanness below; a man lame in one leg and with an ill-proportioned face, malicious, lined, lead-colored; a man who limped and leaped about the room with a fierce energy, the while his tongue, gifted with a rich and resonant voice, poured vitriol upon the silence. Suddenly the woman spoke. She turned back on the threshold of the kitchen door through which her work had been taking her to and fro during Garth’s outbreak. Her voice was monotonous and smothered; it had its share in her unnatural self-repression. “Why don’t you tell him to be quiet, Pete? You’ve been chopping wood since daybreak to make up for what he didn’t do last week, and you only came in about ten minutes before he did. Why don’t you speak out? You’re getting to be pretty close to a man now, and it isn’t suitable for you to let yourself be talked to that way. You always stand like a fool and take it from him.” Pete turned. “Oh, well,” he answered good-humoredly, “I guess maybe he’s tired. Let up, Hugh, will you? I’ll finish your boot after dinner.” “The hell you will! You’ll do it now!” Venting on his brother his anger at the woman’s intervention, Garth swung his misshapen body around the end of the table and thrust an elbow violently against Pete’s chest. The attack was so unexpected that Pete staggered, lost his balance, and stepping down into the shallow depression of a pebbled hearth, fell, twisting his ankle. The agony was sharp. After a dumb minute he lifted a white face and pulled himself up, one hand clutching the board mantel. “Now you’ve done it!” he said between his teeth. “How will you get your pelts to the station now? I won’t be able to take them.” There ensued a dismayed silence. The woman had come back from the kitchen and stood with a steaming dish in her hands. After the brief pause of consternation she set down the dish and went over to Pete. “Here,” she said, “sit down and let me take off your moccasin and bathe your ankle before it begins to swell.” Hugh Garth had seated himself in the thronelike chair at the head of the table. His expression was still defiant, indifferent, and lordly. “Come and eat your dinner, both of you,” he commanded. “You’ve had your lesson, Pete. After this, I guess you’ll do what I tell you to--not choose the work that happens to suit your humor. Don’t, for God’s sake, baby him, Bella. Don’t start being a grandmother before you’ve ever been a sweetheart. You’re too young for the one even if you’re getting a bit too old for the other!”