When Frederick Graves closed the door of the Skinner hut, he wheeled furiously upon his young wife.

"Come home," he said gruffly. "You've done enough harm for today."

"If I've done more than you have," retorted Madelene, tartly, "then I'm some little harm maker!" Suffering intensely from jealousy, she whirled about, crying, "That's what's been the matter with you all the time we've been abroad! And I know very well Tessibel Skinner sent for you to come home."

"That's a lie," interrupted Frederick, fiercely.

Madelene paused in her ascent of the hill lane.

"What made you come down here today, then, if you didn't want to see her yourself?"

Frederick was silent. He hated scenes like this. If he spoke his real mind, he'd plunge himself into hot water at once. And he was always careful not to do that. Silence at the present moment was better than speech. Besides, his late contact with Tessibel Skinner had left him aquiver. Oh, how he loved her! Every nerve in his body called out for sight of his beloved. He would have gone back to the shack if he'd dared.

"Where did you leave your horse?" snapped Madelene, when they'd nearly reached her own.

"In the lower stable at my father's old place,—over there."

"I'll help you mount and then get my horse," said he. "Do you wish to ride on without me?"

Mrs. Graves made a dissenting gesture.

"No, of course, I don't. I want you to come with me directly. I won't let you out of my sight so near that girl. I think it's perfectly outrageous! I somehow believe you lied to me about—"

"Keep your opinions to yourself," growled Frederick. "I've no wish to hear them."

Madelene was about to put her foot into the stirrup. Instead, she stood while fresh tears gathered under her lids.

"Frederick, you're cruel and awfully ugly to me," she said plaintively. "How can you do such things after all the money I've given you?"

Frederick expressed his feeling by a cynical little laugh.

"Perhaps if you didn't throw up your confounded benevolence so often, I might show more gratitude," he snapped back.

Then he lifted her to the saddle, gave her the bridle, and walked beside her to the barn.

His thoughts were busy until, when they reached home, the silence between them was appalling. Thankful to be a few minutes by himself, the young man went away to stable the horses and his wife entered the house. Madelene found her brother sitting before the grate fire. Helen looked up and smiled at her sweetly.

"Come and get warm, dear," she said. "You've had a long ride, haven't you?... Why, what's the matter, Madelene?"

Mrs. Graves dropped into a chair.

"I'm so awfully unhappy," she cried, "and Frederick's as mean as he can be.... I hate that Skinner girl!"

Mrs. Waldstricker dropped her work into her lap.

Ebenezer looked at his sister critically.

"What's she done to you now?" he asked, without waiting for his wife to speak.

Madelene flung up an angry, flushed face.

"She's done enough! I hate her and always shall. She sent for Frederick to come down there—and he went—"

"Are you sure?" asked Mrs. Waldstricker, in a shocked voice.

"Of course I'm sure! I'm not in the habit of saying things I'm not sure of, Helen. I might have known when people told me he was in love with that squatter it was true."

Her loud, angry voice reached Frederick as he entered the room. The frown deepened on his brow. He looked at his brother-in-law for a minute. He never remembered being so angry before.

"Madelene has told a direct falsehood when she says Tessibel Skinner sent for me," he said. "She did not!"

"But I found him in her shanty, Ebenezer dear," thrust in Madelene, "and she's a wicked, little huzzy."

"Hush!" cried Frederick, white-lipped.

"I won't hush, so there!" screamed his wife. "I won't! I won't!... And, Ebenezer, she's bad, she is! She's going to have a—"

Frederick wheeled around desperately. Madelene was placing him at the extreme of his endurance. Human nature could bear no more.

"Oh, my God, such a woman!" he exclaimed.

"There, you see!" gasped Madelene. "He won't listen to a thing against her, and he's been acting as guilty as he could all the way home.... No wonder I don't believe a word he says!"

Mrs. Waldstricker picked up her work, folded it, and laid it on the table.

"But, Madelene, it's so bewildering," she exclaimed. "Tell us, dear, just what happened."

Between sobs and tears Madelene went over the trial she had passed through, and continued, "While we were abroad, I thought there was something the matter with him, and I know one day he got a letter. He wouldn't let me see it, though I begged him to. Now, I know it was from her!" The speaker flung about upon her sister-in-law. "If you could have seen her today, Helen, the shameless thing! She didn't even have the grace to say she was sorry for anything she'd done."

"She probably wasn't," monotoned Waldstricker. Then he looked directly at his wife. "I've often argued with your brother about those squatters. They're a pest to the county. Deforrest—"

"Oh, don't blame Deforrest, Ebenezer," Helen interjected agitatedly. "He's so good at heart, and he did all he could for the little Skinner girl. I know there's some mistake. I'll go down and see her tomorrow."

Waldstricker got up heavily.

"You'll do no such thing," he retorted. "Don't dare go near—her!"

Helen flushed at her husband's tone.

"But Deforrest is away," she argued timidly. "I feel I ought to do something."

Madelene went hastily to her brother's side.

"Don't let her go, Ebbie," she gasped. "It's an awful place; a little bit of a hut—"

"I've been in it many times," interrupted Helen, with dignity, "and I do feel, Ebenezer—"

"I want no argument about the matter," said Waldstricker, sternly. "If she's in the condition Madelene says she is, then her home is no place for my wife.... It's shameful, absolutely shameful!"

"But, Ebenezer, she's probably been unfortunate. Poor little child! I wish you'd—"

Waldstricker cut her plea in two with an angry gesture.

"I command you not to go there," said he, sharply.

"Very well," sighed Helen. "Of course, I'll do as you wish."

Then she got up quietly and went upstairs. Indeed, had she her way, she'd have gone to Tessibel Skinner without hesitation. She knew her brother would be grieved to his heart's core, if this awful thing had happened to the little red-headed squatter girl. But she had no choice in the matter.

Frightened, too, she wondered what Ebenezer's plans were. He was so relentless in his desire to punish sinners. Bye and bye, when she was less nervous, she'd ask him to wait until Deforrest returned before doing anything.

Her head was throbbing with excitement. Her heart, too, ached for Tessibel. She lay down on the bed and closed her eyes. Presently, she heard Ebenezer's slow tread coming upstairs. When he entered the room, she raised her lids and smiled.

"Come here, dear," she murmured.

He came directly to her side.

"What is it, my darling?" he asked tenderly.

"I feel so unhappy about the little Skinner girl," sobbed Helen.

"I'm sorry, dear, but you must not go against my wishes. As a good and obedient wife, you should realize I know best. I can't allow you to go down into that cabin."

"I won't go, dearest, but will you please promise me one thing—"

Ebenezer bent upon her a look so stern she dared not finish. "Oh, I do wish Deforrest were here!" she ended irrelevantly.

"I do, too; but as long as he is not, you must trust me to do what I think best."

He went out abruptly, and Helen Waldstricker cried herself to sleep.