Knowles looked down at him in angry doubt. “Shucks,” he interrupted, “ye besotted idjit! I dunno what ailed me ter kem ter you-uns. I ’lowed ye war so beset ter do--yer--Marster’s--work!” with a mocking whine. “But ye ain’t. Ye seek yer own chance! The Lord tied yer tongue with a purpose, an’ he wasted no brains on a critter ez he didn’t ’low ter hev gabblin’ round the throne. Ye see ter it ye say nuthin’ bout’n this, else jestice’ll take arter you-uns, too, an’ ye won’t be much abler ter talk ter the court o’ law ’n the court o’ the Lawd.” He wagged his head vehemently at the young man, while kneeling to make up anew the bundle of garments, until the scorching vapor compelled him to turn aside. When he arose, he stood erect for one doubtful instant. Then, satisfied by the reflection that for the sake of his own antagonism toward the juggler the jealous and discarded lover would do naught to frustrate the vengeance that menaced Royce, he turned suddenly, and, with the bundle swaying as before on the end of the stick, started without a word along the path by which he had come, leaving Owen Haines gazing after him till he disappeared amongst the leaves. How long Haines sat there staring at the vanishing point of that bosky perspective he could hardly have said. When he leaped to his feet, it was with a repentant sense of the waste of time and the need of haste. His long, lank, slouching figure seemed incompatible with any but the most languid rate of progression; and indeed it was not his habit to get over the ground at the pace which he now set for himself. This was hardly slackened through the several miles he traversed until he reached the schoolhouse, which he found silent and empty. After a wild-eyed and hurried survey, he set forth anew, tired, breathless, his shoulders bent, his head thrust forward, his gait unequal; for he was not of the stalwart physique common amongst the youth of the Cove. He reached the Sims cabin, panting, anxious-eyed, and hardly remembering his grievances against Phemie when he saw her in the passage. She looked at him askance over her shoulder as she rose in silent disdain to go indoors. “I ain’t kem hyar ter plague you-uns, Phemie,” he called out, divining her interpretation of his motive. “I want ter speak ter that thar juggler-man,”-- he could not bring himself to mention the name. She paused a moment, and he perceived in surprise that her proud and scornful face bore no tokens of happiness. Her lips had learned a pathetic droop; her eyelids were heavy, and the long lashes lifted barely to the level of her glance. The words in a low voice, “He ain’t hyar,” were as if wrung from her by the necessity of the moment, so unwilling they seemed, and she entered the house as Mrs. Sims flustered out of the opposite door.