Presently he glanced at the clock. “It's only quarter-past four,” he said. “I thought 't was later, but the snow makes it so light you can't jedge the time. The moon fulls to-night, don't it? Yes; come to think of it, I know it does. Ain't you settin' out supper a little mite early, Waitstill?” This was a longer and more amiable speech than he had made in years, but Waitstill never glanced at him as she said: “It is a little early, but I want to get it ready before I leave.” “Be you goin' out? Mind, I won't have you follerin' Patience round; you'll only upset what I've done, an' anyhow I want you to keep away from the neighbors for a few days, till all this blows over.” He spoke firmly, though for him mildly, for he still had the uneasy feeling that he stood on the brink of a volcano; and, as a matter of fact, he tumbled into it the very next moment. The meagre supper was spread; a plate of cold; soda biscuits, a dried-apple pie, and the usual brown teapot were in evidence; and as her father ceased speaking Waitstill opened the door of the brick oven where the bean-pot reposed, set a chair by the table, and turning, took up her coat (her mother's old riding-cloak, it was), and calmly put it on, reaching then for her hood and her squirrel tippet. “You are goin' out, then, spite o' what I said?” the Deacon inquired sternly. “Did you really think, father, that I would sleep under your roof after you had turned my sister out into the snow to lodge with whoever might take her in--my seventeen year-old-sister that your wife left to my care; my little sister, the very light of my life?” Waitstill's voice trembled a trifle, but other-wise she was quite calm and free from heroics of any sort. The Deacon looked up in surprise. “I guess you're kind o' hystericky,” he said. “Set down--set down an' talk things over. I ain't got nothin' ag'in' you, an' I mean to treat you right. Set down!” The old man was decidedly nervous, and intended to keep his temper until there was a safer chance to let it fly. Waitstill sat down. “There's nothing to talk over,” she said. “I have done all that I promised my stepmother the night she died, and now I am going. If there's a duty owed between daughter and father, it ought to work both ways. I consider that I have done my share, and now I intend to seek happiness for myself. I have never had any, and I am starving for it.” “An' you'd leave me to git on the best I can, after what I've done for you?” burst out the Deacon, still trying to hold down his growing passion. “You gave me my life, and I'm thankful to you for that, but you've given me little since, father.” “Hain't I fed an' clothed you?”