“Oh, John’s woman’s mad at the boy; she and Milly don’t get along. Then agin, Nat got into the mess by bein’ in business with his father—and Anna always did hate his father. She owns the Longstreet property up on Vermont Avenue—leastwise it was put in her name a while back and the courts can’t get it. She could go Nat’s bail if she would. But she won’t. She says it’s ‘good enough for him.’ Let him rot in jail a piece and think it over. Good revenge on John, Nat bein’ his son. It’s makin’ a heap o’ talk ’round the village. Milly—Gawd, she ain’t got brains enough to boil water; all she can do is wring her hands and weep. Folks say a chap named Si Plumb is shinin’ around her—used to be in love with her before she married Nat. But I’m thinkin’ that’s talk. No, the boy ain’t got much help from his women folks. Never did have, for that matter. Sad case, sad case!” “What became of the sister?” “She’s off up to Montreal. Dubois got a job up there in a paper mill. Ordinary sort o’ feller—makes two-seventy-five a day, maybe.” Old Fodder puffed on his pipe for a time. Madelaine could hear his horses munching their evening oats out in the low-studded stable. Finally she drew a deep sigh. “Then I guess it would be somewhat embarrassing for me to congratulate him on his poetry just now, wouldn’t it? Satisfy a woman’s curiosity, Mr. Fodder. What sort of looking man is he? I’ve drawn a picture of him from his poem and I’d like to know how far I’m correct.” “Fair-lookin’ chap!” Uncle Joe poised his shining pipe-stem in mid-air. “Had a fight with this Plumb who they sez is sashayin’ round his wife, just now—long time ago. Got a busted ear. Used to have fifty million freckles but them sort o’ faded out. Been goin’ about the village sort o’ seedy-lookin’ lately—guess his woman spent a pile, thinkin’ he had gobs o’ money. Got fair eyes, but sort o’ hounded-lookin’. Yes, fair sort o’ feller but kinda ordinary. Feel sorry for him myself.” Madelaine laughed. She affected an indifference she did not feel. “I’m awfully obliged to you, Mr. Fodder. This information has forestalled an awkward situation. And you’ll forget I came to see you, won’t you?” “Sartin! Sartin! Stoppin’ in the place long?” “No, I’m going down-country to-night.” “Well, glad to metcher. Ever stoppin’ here again, look me up. Want me to say anythin’ to Nat ’bout you callin’, if he wins out all right?” “No, no! It was only idle curiosity. He doesn’t know me anyway and never will.” “Well, good night. And watch the ice in the yard. Mare broke a leg there Thursday. Dam’ nice mare, too. Had to be shot. Got twelve dollars for her hide. Good night.” Madelaine went out again to Main Street. She strolled about for a time in thought. Her walk brought her in front of the Court House. Nathaniel Forge, the man who had written the little poem that had meant much in her life, was down in a basement cell at that moment—two hundred feet away—ten thousand miles.