"My child engaged to--to her mother's--you--you--"

"I.W.! Do you see now? You wouldn't let him have her! You wouldn't,
I.W.! Tell me you wouldn't!"

"I want him if he touches her to be struck dead! I want him to be struck
dead!"

"Thank God!" said Mrs. Goldstone, weeping now tears that eased her
breathing.

Suddenly he leaned toward her, his voice rather quieter, but his
forefinger waggling out toward the open door.

"You go!" he said, and then in a gathering hurricane of fury, "go!"

"I.W., don't yell! Don't! Don't!"

"Go--while I'm quiet. Go--you hear?"

She edged around him where he stood, in fear of his white, crouched
attitude.

"I.W.!"

He made a step toward her, and, at the sound in his throat, she ran out
into the hallway and down the stairs to the porch. In the deep shade of
the veranda's elbow a small figure lay deep in sleep in the wicker
rocker, one bare arm up over her head and lips parted.