hen he turned on his heel and went into the house. Stephen, who
had just filled a pipe, was smoking furiously in the hall.

"Have they gone?" he demanded.

John nodded.

"They are racing into Kendal to catch the Scotchman for London."

"The sooner she gets there, the better," Stephen growled.

John raised his head. The light of battle flashed for a moment in his
eyes.

"She came here unbidden," he said, "and we did no more than our bounden
duty in entertaining her. For the rest, what is there that you can say
against her? Women there must be in the world. Why do you judge those
who come your way so harshly?"

Stephen withdrew the pipe from his mouth and dealt the black oak table
in front of him a blow with his great fist. Even John himself was struck
with the sudden likeness of his brother's face to the granite rocks
which were piled around their home.

"I'll answer your question, John," he said. "I'll tell you the truth as
I see it and as I know it. Women there must be to breed men's sons, to
care for their households; even, I grant you, to be their companions and
to lighten the dark days when sorrow comes. But she isn't that sort. She
is as far removed from them as our mountain road is from the scented
thoroughfares of Bond Street or the Rue de la Paix, where she might take
her daily exercise. I'll tell you about her, John. She is one of those
who have sown the hatred of women in my heart. Do you know what I call
them, John? I call them witch-women. There's something of the devil in
their blood. They call themselves artists. They have the gift of turning
the heads and spoiling the lives of sober, well-living men, till they
make them dance to their bidding along the ways of shame, and turn their
useful lives into the dotage of a love-sick boy. They aren't
child-bearing women, that sort! They don't want to take their proper
place in your household by your side, breed sons and daughters for you,
sink their own lives in the greater duties of motherhood. There's
generally a drop of devilish foreign blood in their veins, as she has.
Our grandmother had it. You know the result. The empty frame in the
lumber-room will tell you."

John, half angry, half staggered by his brother's vehemence, was for the
moment a little confused.

"There may be women like that, Stephen," he confessed. "I am not denying
the truth of much that you say. But what right have you to class her
among them? What do you know of her?"

"It's