He came in through the window and stood by the door. “It’s a real pity Jarlsen’s late,” he answered. His voice was hard and nasal, the most effective voice for taunts. “Is he late?” she asked more crossly. Quarry laughed. “I guess,” he said, “you knew he was late before it would have been quite time for him to come. You know the listening heart worries terrible they say, and you ain’t got no call to be so high with me. You can hear them girls in the kitchen laughin’ at you, same’s I do. I guess Jarlsen’s getting tired, maybe. He’s kinder in demand, seein’ he’s the only fellow that’s kep’ his complexion in the whole plant.” Emma grew rather white. “Stop your nasty tongue!” she cried imperatively. “You’re always lying! Your face is lying and your eyes can’t see straight. You let what people do to me alone, or you’ll have business of your own to settle. If I was a man, and couldn’t get a respectable girl to marry me because I was a liar and she hated me, I’d let her alone for shame’s sake, when she took up with a man who can tell the truth.” Her voice sounded very loud in her ears as she stopped; for the two fiddles were still, and there was no talking among the dancers. Quarry opened the door as if some one had knocked, and looked out. His features acquired a sudden prominence as the colour flew from his face. Fear crept into Emma’s eyes while she looked at him, shaking with his shadow on the half-open door. She forgot him in the great cry that burst from the other room. It was a horrified, helpless cry, that gave place to a shocked silence. She wrenched the door back and stood on the threshold in her white, scant gown of mechanic’s bride’s finery. Her attitude showed faintness, and her head hung down for lack of courage. The two fiddlers were kneeling, with their tears streaming like rain; they were Polacks, and knelt in gratitude for any excitement. The other men were hushed and stern. On the big table where the arrack punch had been in company with the less heady beer there was a long, writhing hummock, covered with burlap. No form was discernible, but Emma knew at the first strong heart-beat that it was Jarlsen, singed and crippled with a careless blast, as many another had been. The women wailed at her, and the men tried to stay her with their rusty hands. Yet she went forward, pity for him drawing her, and did not pause until she looked him in the face. It was black. The hair was gone; his teeth were fixed in the cracked lower lip, and the eyes, once so wide and bold, were pinkish seams beneath the puffed-out temples. The women had crowded to her back. Their breathing was heavy and in unison. Emma leaned over him and said softly, in a mother’s voice, “Do you hear me speak?” She raised his head on her arm, but it settled back on the table with a sharp crack. He had not heard.