To his surprise Mahala nodded in acquiescence. She said slowly: “I think you are quite right, else your father would not have been able to complicate his business matters as he did. But my father was not the only man to suffer, since the name of Martin Moreland stands for more distress in Ashwater, and throughout the county, than the names of all of the remainder of the wicked men put together.” Before she knew what was coming, Junior had seized her in his arms. He gathered her to him roughly, repeatedly kissing her, her hair, her shoulders, the hands she thrust out to push him from her. Finally she broke from his hold. She stood before him, looking at him in scorn. “I wish you could realize,” she said at last, “that your touch is hateful. I feel positively soiled.” Then Junior lost his self-control. He said to her: “If you won’t marry me, I’ll teach you what it means to be soiled in reality. I’ll put you where the dogs won’t bark at you when you pass.” Terrified at his strength and so dire a threat, Mahala stepped back and pushed a chair between them. Under cover of this, she lightly ran through the house, opened the front door, and stepped upon the walk where she was in full view of the street, so that Junior was forced to leave the house. He came near her in passing and said: “Aren’t you afraid to refuse me?” Mahala studied him intently for several seconds and then she said deliberately: “What you threatened is consistent with Moreland character. As I understand it, I realize that, if it is in your power, you will break me, even as your father broke the heart and the brain of Becky Sampson when she was young and helpless.” At that Junior became furious. He advanced upon Mahala threateningly, his fists doubled, his eyes blazing. “I won’t take that even from you,” he cried. “You lie! My father never knew Becky Sampson!” Goaded beyond endurance, Mahala laughed at him. “I dare you to ask Becky!” she cried. Forgetting everything else in his rage, Junior once more hurried to his old refuge. He told his father what had occurred. The elder Moreland scorned the accusation. He said to Junior: “I hope that at last you are thoroughly cured, that hereafter you’ll devote your time to the winning of a girl worth while. Why spend any more time hanging around an evil-tempered little pauper?” Junior thought this over; then he agreed; but as he turned from the room he said to his father: “Pauper? Yes. But the prettiest girl God ever made, and the prettiest pauper Martin Moreland ever made!” Martin Moreland was pleased. He rubbed his hands together and laughed in high glee. Junior stood a few minutes thinking deeply. Then he disappeared.