“That don’t make no differ!” cried the little old woman, stanch in argument. “Blacksmithin’ air a powerful fine business; the folks in Brumsaidge couldn’t git along ’thout Clem. An’ afore him,—shucks! way back in the Bible times they hed smiths, an’ I reckon they war ez sooty an’ cindery then ez now; dirt ain’t improved none noways, ez I onderstan’, sence them days. Thar war a man then, what the Bible speaks respec’fully of, by the name o’ Tubal Cain,—a cunning workman,—warn’t thar, Teck?” She appealed to him with animation as to a Biblical authority, expecting an eager and interested response; but he only said, “Yes’m,” with an evident effort, cleared his throat, and was silent. Eli Strobe had risen in obedience to some signal from indoors. “Kem in ter supper.” His big voice rumbled out with all its wonted intonations of hospitality. If Jepson had not been otherwise absorbed, he might have noted the candidate’s self-control remarkable in so tantalizing an episode. It did not escape Mrs. Strobe’s keen attention, and she deported herself with a trifle of gay bravado, feeling beyond the reach of retribution, since the dictates of policy so hampered deserts. “Waal, sir, eatin’ supper by a tallow dip,—who ever hearn the beat!” remarked Isabel. “A leetle mo’, an’ we would all hev gone ter bed hongry.” “It do be a powerful late supper.” Mrs. Strobe had a slightly harried aspect; if conscience abode within her, it wielded its power in her housewifely instincts. “Be ye hongry, Teck,—ye an’ Andy an’ Eli? It’s all Marcelly’s fault, a-furgittin’ ter dish up supper till nigh on ter bed-time. An’ me, too: I jes’ sot an’ talked, I will ’low, ez ef my tongue war tied in the middle an’ workin’ at both e-ends.” The feeble focus of the candle dully glowed in the centre of the table, sending out a subdued glimmer upon the faces that surrounded it amidst the encompassing obscurity. A vague glimpse was had of the smoke-blackened ceiling just above, with a rich dash of color where a cluster of strings of red peppers hung. The walls darkly merged into shadows; the fire was a smouldering, tawny-tinted coal; the ceaseless night sounds came through the open door,—the chirring of insects, the sigh of the woods, and the fret of the torrent. As Marcella waited upon them, she was invisible most of the time in the dark periphery of the circle: occasionally there were transitory visions of the fair dispenser of hospitality, the white light falling on her delicate face, and floating hair, and rounded arm, and deft hand, as perchance she leaned forward and tendered the cracked blue bowl of honey to one or the other of the guests; then only an alert, noiseless shadow, slipping about in the kindred gloom.