It was his own home to which he returned, the original dwelling of the Makimmons in Greenstream. He could not, he had told Lettice, be comfortable anywhere else; he could not be content with it closed against the living sound of the stream, or in strange hands. Some changes had been made since his marriage—another space had been enclosed beyond the kitchen, a chamber occupied by Sim Caley and his wife, moved from the outlying farm where Lettice had spent her weeks of “retreat” throughout the passing summers. The exterior had been painted leaden-grey, and a shed transformed into a small, serviceable stable. But the immediate surroundings were the same: the primitive sweep still rose from the well, a cow still grazed in the dank grass; the stream slipped by, mirroring its stable banks, the foliage inexhaustibly replenished by nature; beyond the narrow valley the mountain range shut out the rising sun, closed Greenstream into its deep, verdurous gorge.

High above, the veil of light was still rosy, but it was dusk about Gordon Makimmon’s dwelling. Lettice, in white, with a dark shawl drawn about her shoulders, was standing on the porch. She spoke in a strain of querulous sweetness:

“Gordon, you’ve been the longest while. Mrs. Caley says your supper’s all spoiled. You know she likes to get the table cleared right early in the evening.”

“Is Mrs. Caley to have her say in this house or am I? That’s what I want to know. Am I to eat so’s she can clear the table, or is she to clear the table when I have had my supper?”

“When it suits you, Gordon, of course. Oh, Gordon! whatever are you carrying?”

“A dog!”

“I didn’t know you wanted a dog.” An accent of doubt crept into her voice, a hesitation. “I don’t know if I want a dog around...just now, Gordon.”

“He won’t do any harm; he’s only a young dog, anyhow. Ain’t you a young dog, a regular puppy? But, Lettice, he’s got the grit of General Jackson; he stood right up against the crowd at the store.”

“Still, Gordon, right now—”

“I told you he wouldn’t do any harm,” the man repeated in irritated tones; “he will be with me most of the time, and not around the house. You’re getting too cranky for living, Lettice.” He set the dog upon his feet. “What I’ll call him I don’t know; he’s as gritty as—why, yes, I do, I’ll call him General Jackson. C’m here, General.”

The dog still wavered slightly. He stood intently regarding Gordon. “Here, here, General Jackson.” After another long scrutiny he walked slowly up to Gordon, raised his head toward the man’s countenance. Gordon Makimmon was delighted. “That’s a smart dog!” he exclaimed; “smarter’n half the people I know. He’s got to have something to eat. Lettice, will you tell Mrs. Caley to give General something to eat, and nothing’s too good for him, either.”

Lettice walked to the door of the kitchen and transmitted Gordon’s request to the invisible Mrs. Caley. The latter appeared after a moment and stood gazing somberly at the man and dog. She was a tall, ungainly woman, with a flat, sexless body and a deeply-lined face almost the color of her own salt-raised bread. “This is General Jackson,” Gordon explained out of the settling dark; “he’d thank you for a panful of supper. Come on, General, come on in the kitchen. No, Mrs. Caley won’t bite you; she’ll give us something to eat.”

The room next to the kitchen, that had been Clare’s, had been stripped of its furnishing, and a glistening yellow pine table set in the middle, with six painted wood chairs. The table was perpetually spread on a fringed red or blue cloth; the center occupied by a large silver-plated castor, its various rings filled with differently shaped bottles and shakers. At the end where Lettice sat heavy white cups and saucers were piled; at Gordon’s place a knife and fork were propped up on their guards. On either side were the plates of Simeon and Mrs. Caley. Each place boasted a knife and formidable steel fork—the spoons were assembled in a glass receptacle—and a napkin thrust into a ring of plaited hair plainly marked with the sign of the respective owner.

Mrs. Caley silently put before Gordon a pinkish loin of pork, boiled potatoes and a bowl of purple, swimming huckleberries; this she fortified by a vessel of gravy and section of pie. There was tea. “Where’s Lettice?” Gordon demanded. Apparently Mrs. Caley had not heard him. “Lettice,” he raised his voice; “here’s supper.”

“I don’t want anything to eat, thank you, Gordon,” she returned from another room.

“You ought to eat,” he called back, attacking the pork. Then he muttered, “—full of ideas and airs. Soft.”