Marcella paused when they reached the fence that was the boundary of Eli Strobe’s land, and Clem began to see that she intended to take leave of him here. There was a gap in the fence; some of the rails lay half fallen, one end upon the ground and one supported by the zigzag structure. She rested her basket here, and glanced up at him from the shadow of her sun-bonnet. Her eyes seemed dark and melancholy, and her look was afar off, somehow, and he had a sense of distance from her which led him abruptly to exclaim, “I ain’t said nuthin’ ter make ye mad at me, hev I, Marcelly?” She laughed a little. “Nuthin’ but foolishness. But thar’s so much o’ that in this world thar’s no use in gittin’ mad; don’t make folks no mo’ reasonable ez I knows on.” “Yes-sum. But ye ain’t mad at me?” he pleaded. “Naw, I ain’t,—I ain’t,” she exclaimed impatiently! “Good-by,” she added, encouragingly. “Yes-sum. Good-by,” the poor fellow echoed dolorously; and so he turned and took his way down the long lane, leaving her still standing at the fence. His heart was heavy within him; how eager she had been to be rid of him! His hope had sunk; the wound his rival had dealt began to ache. He felt a repulsion for all the familiar world, for all the aspects of the future as they shaped themselves before his glance, unwontedly prescient. Life hardly seemed worth the living, and he had scant courage to see it through. His mental and moral atmosphere was all uncharacteristic, and although he had not command of even the simplest capacity to feign, and made no effort to disguise the downcast spirit in which he had returned from his open and obvious mission, the gossips at the forge forbore, rather from an intuition of prudence and policy than a merciful desire of sparing him, to rally him upon his defeat. He was stern and gruff, and the presence of his cronies grated upon his mood. He went to his work silently, some of his chagrin expending itself in an energy of industry, and the mellow clanking of the hammers roused the echoes to their wonted iteration; under his skill the metal grew soft or hard as he willed, and for a time there was no indication that aught was amiss with the master of the forge, save his dull, intent, and frowning face. This tense mood could not continue, and presently, under the strain, his nerves began to give way. He had already felt some slight inconvenience from the inexperience of Jube Donnard, who was striking for him to-day, his own assistant having gone hunting. Once so absorbed was he that, as he tapped the iron where Jube should strike, he did not swiftly remove the hammer as was his habit, and the great sledge, hoisted by the parson’s son with both arms, came crashing down upon the hand-hammer, sending it flying out of the smith’s practiced hand, and jarring his arm to the shoulder-blade. In a sudden passion he flung the bar of hot metal at his dodging volunteer striker, and then with a growling oath he turned away to the door.