ead with the force he put into the actual writing. And
when he had finished, he walked the floor reading the editorial, his
voice vibrating, tingling with his own eloquence. The article snorted
defiance. Mr. Butefish tacitly waved the bright flag of personal freedom
in the face of Public Opinion. He bellowed his liberty, as it were, over
Kate's shoulder. He strode, he swaggered--he had not known such a
glorious feeling of independence since he left off plumbing. And he
could go back to it if he had to! Mr. Butefish stopped in the middle of
the floor and showed his teeth at an invisible audience of advertisers
and subscribers.

The article came out exactly as written. Reflection did not temper Mr.
Butefish's attitude with caution. The bruised worm not only had turned,
but rolled clean over.

The following week, Kate rode into Prouty in ignorance of the flattering
tribute which the editor had paid her. Coming at a leisurely gait down
Main Street she looked as usual in pitiless scrutiny at the signs which
told of the collapse of the town's prosperity. She saw without
compassion the graying hair, the tired eyes of anxiety, the lines of
brooding and despondency deepening in faces she remembered as carefree
and hopeful, the look of resignation that comes to the weaklings who
have lost their grip, the emptiness of burned-out passion, the weary
languor of repeated failure--she saw it all through the eyes of her
relentless hatred.

But to-day there was a something different which, in her extreme
sensitiveness, she was quick to see and feel. There was a new expression
in the eyes of the passersby with whom she exchanged glances. Eyes
which for years had stared at her with impudence, indifference, or
ostentatious blankness now held a sort of friendly inquiry, something
conciliatory, which told her they would have spoken had they not been
met by the immobile mask of imperturbability that she wore in Prouty.

"Why the chinook?" Kate asked herself ironically.

The warm wave met her everywhere and she continued to wonder, though it
did not melt the ice about her heart that was of many years'
accumulation.

Kate had sold her wool, finally, through a commission house, and at an
advance over the price at which she had held it when Bowers had advised
her to accept the buyer's offer. She expected the draft in the three
weeks' accumulation of mail for which she had come to Prouty. When the
mail was handed out to her, she looked in as