d faces above him, motioned the water away from him. The
angry look came back into his face, but it was mixed with perplexity.

He touched his hand to his face and brought it down covered with blood.
"How much am I hurt?" he said fiercely.

"Oh, nothing much," Ike hastened to say; "it's just a scratch."

Jim struggled to his elbow and looked around him. It all seemed to come
back to him. "Did he do it fair?" he demanded of his companions.

"Oh, yes; it was fair enough," said Ike.

Jim looked at Jack. "That _thing_ didn't hit me with his axe, did he?"

Jack grinned. "No, but I was just a-goin' to when Bill belted you one,"
was the frank and convincing reply.

Jim got up slowly and faced Bill. "Well, that settles it; it's all
right! You're a better man than I am. That's all I've got to say."

He climbed back over the fence and led the way down to dinner without
looking back.

"What give ye that lick on the side o' the head, Jim?" his wife asked,
when he sat down at the dinner-table.

"Never you mind," he replied surlily, but he added, "Ike's axe come off,
and give me a side-winder."

Bill carefully removed all marks of his struggle and walked into dinner
shamefacedly, all muscle gone out of his bulk of fat. His sudden return
to primeval savagery grew monstrous in the cheerful kitchen, with its
noise of hearty children, sizzling meat, and the clatter of dishes.

The stove was not drawing well and Sarah did not notice anything out of
the way with Bill.

"I never see such a hateful thing in all my life," she said, referring
to the stove. "That rhubarb duff won't be fit for a hog to eat; the
undercrust ain't baked the least bit yet, and I have had it in there
since fifteen minutes after 'leven."

Bill said generously, "Oh, well, never mind, Serry; we'll worry it down
some way."

V

All through July and August Mrs. Jim Harkey seemed to renew her
endeavors to keep the sisters apart; she still carried spiteful tales to
and fro, amplifying them with an irresistible histronic tendency. It had
become a matter of self-exoneration with her then. She could not stop
now without seeming to admit she had been mischief-making in the past.
If the sisters should come together, her lies would instantly appear.

Emma grew morose, irritable, and melancholy; she was suffering for her
sister's wholesome presence, and yet, being under the dominion of the
mischief-maker, dared not send word or even mention the name of her