He delivered his blows straight out from the shoulder, lingering
over each separate word that he might enjoy to the full its
stupendous effect.

"This is your doing," repeated Fletcher hoarsely; "it's your
doing, every blamed bit of it."

Christopher laughed shortly. "Well, I'm through with my errand,"
he said, moving toward the steps and pausing with one hand on a
great white column. "The sooner you get him out of my barn the
better riddance it will be. There's one thing certain, though,
and that is that you don't lay eyes on him without the doctor.
He's downright ill, on my oath."

"Oh, it's the same old trick, and I see through it," exclaimed
Fletcher furiously. "It's pure shamming."

"All the same, I've got my gun on hand, and you don't go into
that barn alone." He hung for an instant upon the topmost step,
then descended hurriedly and walked rapidly back along the broad
white walk. It would be an hour, at least, before Fletcher could
follow him with Doctor Cairn, and after he had returned to the
barn and given Will a glass of new milk he fed and watered the
horses and did the numberless small tasks about the house. He was
at the woodpile, chopping some light wood splinters for Cynthia,
when the sound of wheels reached him, and in a little while more
the head of Fletcher's mare appeared around the porch. Doctor
Cairn, a frousy, white-bearded old man, crippled from rheumatism,
held out his hand to Christopher as he descended with some
difficulty between the wheels of the buggy.