He went on, resentfully: "I ain't 'shamed," he stoutly asserted. "Nobody 'lowed I oughter be. It's him, plumb bowed down with shame." "The shoe's on the t'other foot," she cried. "It's ye that oughter be 'shamed, an' ef ye ain't, it's more shame ter ye. What hev he got ter be 'shamed of?" "'Kase," he retorted, "he war fetched up afore a court on a crim'nal offence--a-cussin' afore the court! Ye may think it's no shame, but he do; he war so 'shamed he gin up his office ez jestice o' the peace, what he hev run fur four or five times, an' always got beat 'ceptin' wunst." "Dad!" but for the whisper she seemed turning to stone; her dilated eyes were fixed as she stared into his face. "An' I seen him a-ridin' off from town in the rain arterward, his head hangin' plumb down ter the saddle-bow." Her amazed eyes were still fastened upon his face, but her hand no longer trembled on the back of the chair. He suddenly held out his own hand to her, his sympathy and regret returning as he recalled the picture of the lonely wayfarer in the rain that had touched him so. "Oh, Eveliny!" he cried, "I never war so beset an' sorry an'--" She struck his hand down; her eyes blazed. Her aspect was all instinct with anger. "I do declar' I'll never furgive ye--ter spite him so--an' kem an' tell _me_! An' shame him so ez he can't hold his place--an' kem an' tell _me_! An' bow him down so ez he can't show his face whar he hev been so respected by all--an' kem an' tell _me_! An' all fur spite, fur he hev got nuthin' ye want now. An' I gin him up an' lef him lonely, an' all fur you-uns. Ye air mean, Abs'lom Kittredge, an' I'm the mos' fursaken fool on the face o' the yearth!" He tried to speak, but she held up her hand in expostulation. "Nare word--fur I won't answer. I do declar' I'll never speak ter ye agin ez long ez I live." He flung away with a laugh and a jeer. "That's right," he said, encouragingly; "plenty o' men would be powerful glad ef thar wives would take pattern by that."