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Mauney’s back was turned toward him so that the father could not see the occupation causing such seemingly friendly terms between his son and his hired woman. His narrow eyes studied them in mystification.

“What’s all this?” he gruffly demanded, as the face of William appeared over his shoulder with the same inquisitive expression.

“Annie’s doing up my hand,” Mauney replied calmly.

Bard covered the floor in long strides to glance at the white bandage through which a red stain had already soaked.

“Do it up yerself!” he commanded, seizing the woman’s arm and pulling her away. “Where’s the supper, Annie?”

“Oh, it’ll be ready by the time you get some o’ the muck off your hands,” she said, good-naturedly, as she set about stirring a boiling pot on the stove.

As Mauney stood trying to adjust the dressing, he struggled to overcome an instinct of fight, wondering how much longer he would be able to tolerate his father’s crude domination. Presently the woman had the supper served and the men, having washed themselves, were sitting down.