“Ain’t old Coll Willard gone to be a moneychanger in hell yet?” he snarled. The Squire was looking toward the house and did not answer. A woman stood on the front porch, gazing under her palm. Even from the road the grace of her figure showed itself. The soft, light material that drooped away from her upraised arm left its rounded contour and whiteness outlined against the dark hair. “Hiram Look!” echoed the old man, and he came straight into the middle of the road and stood there, trying to hold himself erect, propping his hand on his back at the waist. He made no move to step aside, and the showman was forced to halt his animals. “And so it’s Hiram Look come home again?” he rasped, his thin nostrils fluttering. “And how is it he comes parading, instead of sneaking over the back fences as he ought?” He was talking over the showman’s head to the villagers. The spirit of assertion seemed to have dropped from Hiram. He shook so violently that he set his hand against the elephant to steady himself. “Judge!” The Squire advanced close to the old man and spoke low. “My brother is considerably unstrung by things that have just happened. Don’t say anything to him now, please don’t! If something must be said later about the old times there’ll be plenty of chance to say it. Wait!” His tone was mild and entreating, but Willard still disdained to glance at him. “If some one hasn’t told Hiram Look what Palermo thinks of him, it’s time for it to be done, townsmen!” shrieked Willard, his face white, his lips drawn back over some obtrusive false teeth. The Squire turned toward the distant figure on the porch, appeal and apology in his eyes, though he realised that she could not witness his emotions. “Better for you to have stayed with the husks and the swine, Hiram Look. You thought you left him for dead, my boy Kleber. Don’t you tell me! You wanted to kill him. My poor boy! To leave me in my old age without my son! And the scar of it on his face to-day! There’s a law for you yet, Hiram Look--a law to make you suffer for that scar. A pretty pair--yes, a pretty pair! Old Seth Look’s pair of steers! And Hiram would have robbed my boy of a wife, and Phin Look thought he could steal my daughter. Now, I’ll tell you both----” “No, you won’t tell us--not here in the face and eyes of every one in Palermo!” roared Hiram. “I’m ready for your tongue and your law at fittin’ time and place, Coll Willard, but this ain’t the time. I told your son twenty-five years ago that there was such a thing as talking too damn much--and he still talked. Don’t you do it to-day.” “Do you want to put your mark on the father’s face?” the old man shrieked, hobbling close and poking forward his weasened visage. “Strike me! Kill me! It’s your style, Hiram Look. And it’s your brother’s style to lallygag after a girl that wouldn’t use him for a doormat. The two of you are----”