Hale watched him keenly, wondering what his game was--and he went on: “I know the house an' land ain't wuth much to your company, an' as the coal-vein has petered out, I reckon they might not axe much fer it.” It was all out now, and he stopped without looking at Hale. “I ain't axin' any favours, leastwise not o' you, an' I thought my share o' Mam's farm mought be enough to git me the house an' some o' the land.” “You mean to live there, yourself?” “Yes.” “Alone?” Dave frowned. “I reckon that's my business.” “So it is--excuse me.” Hale lighted his pipe and the mountaineer waited--he was a little sullen now. “Well, the company has parted with the land.” Dave started. “Sold it?” “In a way--yes.” “Well, would you mind tellin' me who bought it--maybe I can git it from him.” “It's mine now,” said Hale quietly. “YOURN!” The mountaineer looked incredulous and then he let loose a scornful laugh. “YOU goin' to live thar?” “Maybe.” “Alone?” “That's my business.” The mountaineer's face darkened and his fingers began to twitch. “Well, if you're talkin' 'bout June, hit's MY business. Hit always has been and hit always will be.” “Well, if I was talking about June, I wouldn't consult you.” “No, but I'd consult you like hell.” “I wish you had the chance,” said Hale coolly; “but I wasn't talking about June.” Again Dave laughed harshly, and for a moment his angry eyes rested on the quiet mill-pond. He went backward suddenly. “You went over thar in Lonesome with your high notions an' your slick tongue, an' you took June away from me. But she wusn't good enough fer you THEN--so you filled her up with yo' fool notions an' sent her away to git her po' little head filled with furrin' ways, so she could be fitten to marry you. You took her away from her daddy, her family, her kinfolks and her home, an' you took her away from me; an' now she's been over thar eatin' her heart out just as she et it out over here when she fust left home. An' in the end she got so highfalutin that SHE wouldn't marry YOU.” He laughed again and Hale winced under the laugh and the lashing words. “An' I know you air eatin' yo' heart out, too, because you can't git June, an' I'm hopin' you'll suffer the torment o' hell as long as you live. God, she hates ye now! To think o' your knowin' the world and women and books”--he spoke with vindictive and insulting slowness--“You bein' such a--fool!” “That may all be true, but I think you can talk better outside that gate.” The mountaineer, deceived by Hale's calm voice, sprang to his feet in a fury, but he was too late. Hale's hand was on the butt of his revolver, his blue eyes were glittering and a dangerous smile was at his lips. Silently he sat and silently he pointed his other hand at the gate. Dave laughed: