like whipcords. In Lemuel Weeks' dwelling the consternation reached its
climax. Tim, bruised from his fall, limped in and told his portentous story.
In his spite, he added, "I don't care, I hit him hard. His face was all
bloody."

"All bloody!" groaned his father. "Lord 'a mercy! He can send you to jail,
sure enough!"

Then Mrs. Weeks sat down and wailed aloud.


Chapter XXVI. "You Don't Know."

As Timothy Weeks limped hastily away, Holcroft, with a strong revulsion of
feeling, thought of Alida. HE had been able to answer insults in a way
eminently satisfactory to himself, and every blow had relieved his electrical
condition. But how about the poor woman who had received worse blows than he
had inflicted? As he hastened toward the house he recalled a dim impression
of seeing her sink down on the doorstep. Then he remembered her effort to
face the marauders alone. "She said she was to blame, poor child! As if there
were any blame at all! She said, 'spare him,' as if I was facing a band of
murderers instead of a lot of neighborhood scamps, and that she'd go away.
I'd fight all Oakville--men, women, and children--before I'd permit that," and
he started on a run.

He found Alida on the step, where she had sunk as if struck down by the rough
epithets hurled at her. She was sobbing violently, almost hysterically, and
at first could not reply to his soothing words. He lifted her up, and half
carried her within to a chair. "Oh, oh," she cried, "why did I not realize it
more fully before? Selfish woman that I was, to marry you and bring on you all