pisode of the
weasel, she resolved that she would not say anything to him about it,
lest he should twist it into a confirmation of his own views. As for
those seven eggs, so happily spared to her, she argued that the
capture of the weasel, with all its attendant excitement, had served
as a warning to the porcupines and put them on their guard. Well, she
would give them something else to think about. She was now all
impatience, and felt unwilling to await the developments of the
morrow, which, after all, might refuse to develop! With a sudden
resolution she arose, fetched the gnawed and battered remains of the
herring-tub from their concealment behind the kitchen door, and
propped them up against the side of the house, directly beneath her
bedroom window.

At first her purpose in this was not quite clear to herself. But the
memory of her triumph of the previous night was tingling in her veins,
and she only knew she wanted to lure the porcupines back, that she
might do _something_ to them. And first, being a woman, that
something occurred to her in connexion with hot water. How conclusive
it would be to wait till the porcupines were absorbed in their
consumption of the herring-tub, and then pour scalding water down upon
them. After all, it was more important that she should vanquish her
enemies than prove to a mere man that they really were her enemies.
What did she care, anyway, what that Joe Barron thought? Then, once
more, a doubt assailed her. What if he were right? Not that she would
admit it, for one moment. But just supposing! Was she going to pour
hot water on those porcupines, and scald all the bristles off their
backs, if they really _didn't_ come after her eggs? Mrs. Gammit was
essentially just and kind-hearted, and she came to the conclusion that
the scheme might be too cruel.

"Ef it be you uns as takes the aigs," she murmured thoughtfully, "a
kittle o' bilin' water to yer backs ain't none too bad fer ye! But ef
it be _only_ my old herrin'-tub ye're after, then bilin' water's too
ha'sh!"

In the end, the weapon she decided upon was the big tin pepper-pot,
well loaded.

Through the twilight, while the yard was all in shadow, Mrs. Gammit
sat patient and motionless beside her open window. The moon rose,
seeming to climb with effort out of the tangle of far-off treetops.
The faint, rhythmic breathing of the wilderness, which, to the
sensitive ear, never ceases even in the most profound calm, took on
the ni