o display agitation. His
jaws worked, but he said nothing.

"You 'ain't lost them teeth again, have you?"

He nodded his head wretchedly.

"'And the Lord took away the teeth of his enemy, so that he could neither
bite nor talk,'" quoted Mrs. Yellett to the miserable man, who could make
no reply.

"Wonder you wouldn't see the foolishness o' being a heathen and a infidel,
and turn to the Lord! You 'ain't got no teeth, and it takes your wife to
herd you. 'And the Lord multiplied the tribulations of his enemy.' You got
no more show standin' up agin the Lord than an insect would have standin'
up agin me."

She had Leander, at last, just where she wanted him. He was forced to
listen, and he could make no reply. She alternately abused him for his
lack of faith and urged him to repentance. Leander raged, gesticulated,
turned his back on her, mouthed, and finally put his fingers in his ears.
But nothing stemmed the tide of Mrs. Yellett's eloquence; it was as
inexhaustible and as remorseless as the cloud-burst.

It continued bitterly cold, even after the rain had stopped falling, and
the heap of sodden bedclothes furnished no protection against the chilling
dampness. It was growing dark; there was no red in the sunset, only a
streak of vivid orange along the horizon, chill and clear as the empty,
soulless flame of burning paper. There were no deep, glowing coals, no
amethystine opalescence, fading into gold and violet. All was cold and
subdued, and the scrub pines on the mountain-tops stood out sharply
against this cold background like an etching on yellow paper.

Mrs. Yellett's self-inspired scriptural maxims were discontinued after a
while, either because she could think of no more, or because the
rain-soaked, shivering, chattering object towards which they were directed
was too abject to inspire further efforts. Leander huddled on the barrel
that was farthest from Mrs. Yellett, and wrapped himself in the soaked red
bedquilt. The dye smeared his face till he looked like an Indian brave
ready for battle, but there was no further suggestion of the fighting red
man in the utter desolation of his attitude. Mary Carmichael, on her
barrel, shivered with grim patience and longed for a cup of tea. Only Mrs.
Yellett gave no sign of anxiety or discomfort; she drove along, sometimes
whistling, sometimes swearing, erect as an Indian, and to all appearances
as oblivious of cold and wet as if she were in her own home.

The gathering