Craig took one step forward, thus bringing him almost on to the man.

"Apologise! Instantly!"

Ashgrave looked into the eyes that confronted him, without a tremor. He had gone too far to flinch now. It even struck him as a weakness that the man should demand an apology, as if he looked at this thing in its personal light, instead of asserting his priestly rights.

The interpreted insolence of the glance was spark to the powder of Craig's anger, and forgetting everything but the offence, his arm leaped back, his fist clenched and he struck squarely at Ashgrave's face. The act was the loosing of the terrible tension which held the younger man, who in the instinct of defence found the self that had been heard in the words that had stirred his horror. As the clergyman's arm darted forward, his own flew up and, with his tremendous right hand, he seized the other's wrist and stopped the blow. Powerful as was the clergyman, his muscles were weakened by his inactive life, while those of his opponent were like hardened steel. Still grasping the other's wrist, Ashgrave threw his weight and the strength of his muscles against him, while at the same time he struck his braced left leg with his knee, thus breaking his base. At this instant, releasing the wrist, he struck out with his right fist and the clergyman stretched his length upon the grass.

The joy of action surged through him; the terror of his sin ceased; he was a man facing the man who had wronged him. The thought swept through him that he had only to strike hard enough to kill; and he sprang upon Craig before he could rise, planted his knees upon his breast and, circling his neck with his two hands, began to press his thumbs together against his windpipe. The exultation of approaching intoxication seized him,

as the other's face blackened and the struggle of his hands to free himself from that terrible pressure became feebler and more purposeless. His own brain was burning with the joyousness of destruction, the consciousness of ability to kill.

Then he felt the sudden grasping of the collar of his shirt, an attempt to pull away his hands, and above him a voice that pierced his brain like a point of steel.

"Wait till you 've a wife to kill!”

He dropped his hands and looked at the girl in speechless wonder. She had not turned pale; she had made no effort to help Barnaby, who was still pulling at his collar. She stood there as calm as if it were an every day matter to see one man kill another. It seemed to him that under her calmness there was a touch of triumph that she meant him at least to read.

He rose slowly to his feet, giving to Barnaby only the pains of shaking off his hands. Then he looked down at the half-conscious man on the grass, whose tongue was lolling from his mouth, and whose breath came in short gasps. It seemed to him a despicable thing that a man should be so feeble and helpless. He turned to the girl.

"See what you can do for him. He's a priest, and that 's next thing to a woman." Then he walked away, and left Barnaby and Miss Seagrave to undo the work he had done.

81326B

CHAPTER XV

D°

GO AND SIN NO MORB

O YOU wanter live tu be a ol' maid, like K'siah
Singleton?" demanded Mrs. Seagrave tartly.

It was baking day and almost hot enough in the sun to make fire needless. The out-of-door oven was loaded with a variety of pies, cake and bread. A pile of split hickory by the oven door showed its clean-grained claim to preeminence among fire woods. Mother and daughter stood in the pleasant shade of the wide-branching elm for a moment of well earned rest. Mrs. Seagrave was a tall, gaunt woman, with a flat chest and high cheekbones, capable at forty-five of work that would tire a dozen ordinary women, and who persisted in believing that any woman who did not keep pace with her was loafing.

She had begun in deep surprise, in common with others, at finding herself the mother of this slim, graceful girl of the dreamy eyes and sweet voice; but she had now reached the point where she could say to a stranger, without the tremor of a doubt.

"At her age, you'd a' thought I was her."

"Fellers hain't goin' to dance eternal at a girl's ap'onstrings," she pursued her first unanswered demand.

"I wish they'd show some signs of quittin'," the girl answered.

"Take one on 'em an' t' others will," prescribed the mother, from the storehouse of experience.

"I've got the say now," responded the girl; “he'd have it then."

"Keep on dilly-dallyin', an' it'll be Hobson's chice," said the older woman spitefully.

"I don't have to marry."

'Mandy Seagrave will you talk sense? Hain't you a woman?"

There was no answer within the realm of experience to the clear implication of this demand, and Amanda took up in silence the task of cleaning the cookery implements. She and her mother had had their discussions weekly for more than two years, and she had always found them rather entertaining than otherwise, with their deep suggestion of the range of choice that was hers, and the silent flattery of the suggested devotion of unnamed lads. To-day she spoke under terror of the cataclysm that had left nothing on which she could plant her feet. For the first time she suggested the possibility of non-marriage. For her marriage was now possible with only one man in the world, to have named whom would have been to rouse a storm which she had no strength to endure.

"You're a'ter that feller Barnaby," her mother suddenly burst forth, after waiting a fair time for the girl to renew the discussion.

The very brutality of the accusation rent with violence a veil which she had unconsciously known was before her, and which she had not had courage to lift. Through the rent came the tremendousness of a truth that she had never suspected, yet now seemed always to have known. In the suddenness of the revelation, what had a moment before been the terror of the situation, became almost her single hold on the firm facts of life, since, whatever she had unconsciously hoped, this alone was possible. It gave her courage to play with the accusation as she would not otherwise have dared.

"Well: s'pose I am? where's the harm?"

"Harm, 'Mandy Seagrave! You don't even know who he be!"

"I don't see that 's any worse than knowing so well just who all these others are."

"P'raps you think they hain't eny on 'em good 'nough fur you?" Mrs. Seagrave was actively at work again and spoke amid the clatter of pots and dishes.

"I know some of 'em ain't fit for a decent girl," retorted Amanda, aroused to a sudden desire for solace to her hidden anguish through spoken accusation of others. "Maybe you'd have me take Sol Green and bring up the baby he had by that girl at the Poor Farm." "Shet up!" commanded the mother. "Thar 's some things a gal should n't talk about."

"Things that are fit to be are fit to talk about," returned the girl doggedly. "You let him come here just as you do the others, and Tom and Harry know the story just as well as everybody else." If she must retreat, she had the instinct to do so under cover of her younger brothers.

"Boys know a heap o' things gals should n't," returned Mrs. Seagrave.

"And do a heap of things, I s'pose you'd say," Amanda interposed bitterly.

"Wall now, 'Mandy Seagrave," exclaimed the mother, her busy hands stopping in sheer surprise; "what be ye drivin' at? Ef ye can't talk 'bout decent things, ye 'd better shet up!"

"I did n't begin it," retorted the girl; "but I 'm not going to stop, just 'cause folks think things can be done but must n't be talked about. S'pose it had been Sol Green's sister. Would you let her come here? Would you let our Tom marry her?"