It was soon bruited abroad that Jepson had come back to Broomsedge Cove to live, and to those who declined to give credence to this new instance of his boldness—having entertained the opinion that he would skulk indefinitely amongst the hidden nooks of the mountains, continuing a reproach to the denizens of the Settlement for their failure to detain him—conclusive evidence was promptly furnished by his reappearance in his old haunts. No one sought to compensate now for the previous dereliction of the community, and he was proof against the cold shoulder and the look askance, so completely did the influence of his own individuality dwarf the opinion of the disaffected. A new view of the accident began to be entertained, and there were not a few disparaging comments, especially among the adverse political faction, on Eli Strobe’s methods in office, and his own responsibility for the disaster which had befallen him. Had Jepson been a philosopher or a student of human nature, he might have found material for interesting analysis in the conduct of his ancient cronies during his absence as set forth in sundry confidences of what had been said, and thought, and threatened, and thus have sown the seeds of permanent misanthropy. He evidently gave the gossip little heed; he flouted its infinitesimal consequence. He was so validly indifferent, so serenely strong in the courage of his convictions, so arrogant in his self-esteem, that he belittled the others without even an intention of reducing their pride. Only once did the barbed shaft fail to glance off futile. “War them Pa’son Donnard’s words?” he asked, a frown upon his face, as he stood in the door of the forge and leaned against the frame, while a coterie of the gossips sat half within and half without. His eyes were dark and full of smouldering fire; his broad hat was pushed back from his brow, which had flushed to the roots of his hair. “Did _he_ ’low ez how I hed _c’mitted murder_? War them his words?” “Jube say so,” replied Clem Sanders. He was not consciously treacherous to his friend, but he possessed an unguarded tongue, and perhaps it was the hidden workings of justice that he should betray Jube’s confidences, as Jube had failed to keep his secret. Jepson remained silent a moment after the reiteration of the assertion. Then his whole aspect suddenly cleared. “The Lord’ll jedge ’twixt him an’ me. I ain’t a-keerin’ so long ez the Lord be on my side. I fear no man, an’ the word o’ none!” It was doubtless because of his mental breadth and freshness, his physical vigor and the elasticity appertaining to health, that his hope was so strong, and his courage so sound, and his nerves so accurately poised. But he believed this the result of piety, and he was not often gainsaid.