There was something pitiful to Dorothy in the eagerness with which Joe received the inscription, which she had carefully printed on four sheets of foolscap basted together. She read it to him, over and over, that Monday morning, at his request, until he could repeat it easily.

Before going home he looked up Hiram, and borrowed a cold chisel and a hammer. When he reached the wood where he had hidden the stone, he laid it down, and, without further thought, began to chisel out the few sad words in which the graver of the city workman had recorded the fate of Harry Lyndsay. This was sufficiently easy, as he made rough work of it, being anxious to get to the more difficult task.

He had reflected a little as to the risks of some one visiting the little burial-ground up the river, but, as those he knew thereabouts did not trouble themselves to visit the graves of their dead, it did not occur to him that these city-folks would be any more likely to do so. Nor was it any more probable that, far away in the depth of the forest, anybody who was interested would ever come upon the burial-place of Susan’s children.

312“Wouldn’t know nothin’ if they did,” he said to himself, as he went on with great care to mark with a burned stick the place for the lettering, which he began now to chisel on the smooth reverse of the marble.

It was a hard job, but Joe, like most lumbermen, was very skilful with tools. He returned after dinner, and steadily persevered until the twilight forbade him to go on. Susan, still in her more pleasant mood, was satisfied that his absence meant merely the continuance of the usual labor of accumulating fire-wood for winter use.

On Tuesday, early, he went back to the unaccustomed task, and all day long hung anxious and sweating over the stone. Meanwhile Margaret Lyndsay sat on the porch of the Cliff Camp, reflecting that soon she must go away and leave her dead to loneliness and the long burial of the winter snows.

On the river Lyndsay was fishing with Anne, and Dorothy had been over, and taken away, carefully wrapped in her handkerchief, the drama of “Mrs. Macbeth.”

And still the hammer rang on in the dark woodland, until at evening his task was completed. Joe stood up, straightened his tired back, and considered the stone with satisfaction. The work was roughly done, but sufficiently plain, nor was Joe disposed to be too critical. At last here was something which Susie would like.

Pleased with this idea, he brought water from a forest spring, and sedulously cleared the marble of the charcoal-marks and of the soil of his handling. As he stood regarding it, he even felt pride in his 313seeming power to read what he had carved, and repeated aloud, “Of such are the kingdom of heaven.”

It was now late, and with deliberate care, lest his burden should fall, he heaved the slab on his back, and set off across the forest, limping as he went. When he reached the three small mounds in the clearing, he laid it down with care, and, after some deliberation, dug a hole and set the stone at the head of the middle grave. Having thus completed his task, he wiped his wet brow on his sleeve, and sat down on a stump, with his pipe in his mouth.

He intended to let the night go by, and, after breakfast next day, to take his wife to the wood, and surprise her with what he had done for her. He would tell her he had a secret; he would say it was something she would want to have done. But he would not tell her what it was. He was like a great simple child; unthoughtful, owned by the minute’s mood or need, not immoral, merely without any recognized rule of life.

As he regarded what he had done, he began to think that to bring her hither at once would be pleasant. He could not wait. The notion brought him to his feet, and he soon gathered the material for a fire, which he placed facing the stone, a few feet from the graves. The space around was amply cleared, so that there was no risk. This done, and the pile ready with birch-bark kindling, which needed only to be lighted, he turned away and hastened home.

It was now dark. As he entered his cabin he saw his wife crouched low on a stool before the fire, her head in her hands, her hair, which was coarse and 314abundant, hanging about her—a comb awry in its tumbled mass.

He guessed that her mood had changed. She took no manner of notice of his coming. He moved forward, and, touching her shoulder, said:

“What’s the matter, Susie?”

“Matter enough!” she returned, sharply. “That lawyer man’s been here, and wanted you. You ain’t never to hand when you’re wanted.”

“What is it now?”

“He says we’ve got to pay up or git out in October. Guess he got my mind ’bout it. I’d have licked him if I’d been a man. He wasn’t far from scared, anyhow.”

“That won’t help us none,” said Joe, with a glimmer of good sense. “He’ll be wus’n ever he was.”

“Who cares?” Then, turning, she set her eyes, aglow with the firelight, large, red, and evil, on Joe. “That man Carington was around to-day, asking if we’d seen bear-tracks. Bill Sansom told me. He didn’t come here. I did see him yesterday, on the lower road, a-twiddlin’ a gold watch-chain and a-singin’. What might a big gold watch be worth, Joe? I asked him the hour, just to git a look at it.”

“Lord, Susie, I don’t know.”

To this she made no reply. He stood beside her, shifting his feet uneasily.

Of a sudden she got up and caught the man by the shoulders, and, as she stood, towered over him a full foot.

“What—what’s the matter, Susie?” he gasped.

“Git that man up here in September, you fool.”

315Joe looked aside, Dorothy’s imperfect warning in his mind.

“I heerd he’d give up that notion.”

“That’s a lie.”

“It ain’t! I swear it ain’t no lie. I heerd Michelle a-sayin’ so.”

“When was it?”

“I don’t rightly remember. I—I couldn’t do it.”

“Git him here, and I’ll do it,” she said. “It’s just to pull a trigger. So.” And she snapped her thumb and finger so as make a sharp click. The blood was up in splotches of dusky red upon her angular and sallow face. The man recoiled, more scared at the woman than at the crime which he lacked power to conceive of as possible.

“Gosh!” he cried, “you’re a devil!”

In an instant she was changed. She had a share of the singular dramatic power of the abler and more resolute criminal nature.

“Oh, I............