The room was cold. The fire had died down; only the huge backlog showed splotches of red against the charred black; in front of it were the faintly smoking ashes of a once sprightly blaze. She shivered, and then, moved by a sudden impulse, strode softly over and took down from its peg beside the fireplace the huge turkey wing used in blowing the embers to life. She was vigorously fanning the backlog when a sound from behind indicated that her mother had risen from the chair. She smiled as she glanced over her shoulder. Her mother was standing with one of her hands pressed tightly to her eyes. Her lips were moving. "He is Robert--Robert himself," she was murmuring. "As like as two peas. I was afraid he might be--would be--" The words trailed off into a mumble, for she had lowered her hand and was staring in dull surprise at Viola. "What is it, mother?" cried the girl, alarmed by the other's expression. "What were you saying?" After a moment her mother said, quite calmly: "Oh, it's you, is it? When did you get home?" "A few minutes ago. How cold it is! The fire is almost out. Shall I get some kindling and start it up?" "Yes. I don't know how I came to let it go down." When Viola returned from the kitchen with the fagots and a bunch of shavings, the older woman was standing in front of the fireplace staring moodily down at the ashes. She moved to one side while her daughter laid the kindling and placed three or four sticks of firewood upon the heap. Not a word was spoken until after Viola had fanned a tiny flame out of the embers and lighted the shavings with a spill. "I met my brother out there in the grove," said she, rising and brushing the wood dust from her hands. "Yes?" "I thought maybe you and he had been discussing Barry Lapelle and me and what happened last night, so I started to give him a piece of my mind," said Viola, crimsoning. A faint smile played about the corners of Mrs. Gwyn's lips. "I can well imagine his astonishment," she said, drily. "He knew all about it, even if he did not get it from you, mother," said the girl, darkly. "Phin Striker told him everything." "Everybody in town will know about it before the week is out," said the mother, a touch of bitterness in her voice. "I would have given all I possess if it could have been kept from Kenneth Gwynne. Salt in an open sore, that's what it is, Viola. It smarts, oh, how it smarts." Viola, ignorant of the true cause of her mother's pain, snapped her fingers disdainfully. "That's how much I care for his opinion, one way or the other. I wouldn't let him worry me if I were you, mother. Let him think what he pleases. It's nothing to us. I guess we can get along very well without his good opinion or his good will or anything else. And I will not allow him to interfere in my affairs. I told him so in plain words out there awhile ago. He comes here and the very first thing he does is to--"