and was replaced by a kind of purple hue. She
lifted her hand and brought it with full force on Tom's cheek. He
sprang to his feet quivering with rage, and pain, and humiliation.
His fierce temper was up, and Lucy trembled for what was to follow.
"Next time you make a fool o' me, boy," said Aunt Hepsy with a slow
smile, "perhaps ye'll get summat ye'll like even less than that."

Then the boy's anger found vent in words. "If you weren't a woman I'd
knock you down. I hate you, and I wish I'd died before I came to this
horrid place. It's worse than being a beggar living with such people.
You touch me again, and I'll give it you though you are a woman."

Aunt Hepsy took him by the shoulders and pushed him before her out to
the yard. "Ye'll be cool, I guess, afore I let ye in again," she said
briefly, and then came back to Lucy.

She was weeping with her face hidden and her work lying on the settle
beside her.

"Nice brother that of your'n," said Aunt Hepsy. "If he ain't growin'
up to be hanged, my name ain't Hepsy Strong. Here, go on with your
seam, an' don't be foolin' there."

Lucy silently obeyed, but Aunt Hepsy could not control her thoughts,
and they went pitifully out into the rain after Tom. He stood a
minute or two in a dazed way, and then hurried from the yard, through
the garden and the orchard to the meadow. In one little moment the
victory over temper he had won and kept for weeks was gone; and in
the shame and sorrow which followed, only one person could help him,
and that was Mr. Goldthwaite. There had been many quiet talks with
him since the first Sunday evening, and his lessons had sunk deep
into the boy's heart, and he had indeed been earnestly trying to make
the best of the life and work which had no interest nor sweetness for
him. As he sped through the long, wet grass, heedless of the rain
pelting on his uncovered head, he felt more wretched than he had ever
done in his life before. He had to wade ankle-deep to the bridge, but
fortunately did not encounter a living soul all the way to the
parsonage. Miss Goldthwaite was sewing in the parlour window, and
looked up in amazement to see a drenched, bareheaded boy coming up
the garden path.

"Why, Tom, it can't be you, is it?" she exclaimed when she opened the
door. "What is it? Nobody ill at Thankful Rest, I hope."

"No," said Tom. "It's only me; I want to see Mr. Goldthwaite."

"He has just gone out, but will not be many minutes," said Miss
Goldt