lose.

"He keeps a woodpile back of the house," James Macauley had told her
once, laughingly, in the last days before she had married Burns, "where
he works off a good deal of high pressure. If you catch a glimpse of
him there, at unholy hours, you may know that there's murder in his
heart--for the moment. Art Chester vows he's caught him there at
midnight, and I don't doubt it in the least. But--a woodpile isn't always
handy when a man is mad clear through, and when it isn't, and you happen
to be the one who's displeased His Pepperiness, look out! I give you fair
warning, smiles and kisses won't always work with him, much as he may
like 'em when he's sane!"

"I'm not afraid, thank you, Jim," Ellen had answered, lightly. "Better a
red-hot temper than a white-cold one."

She thought of the words now, as she saw her husband suddenly turn away
from Dr. Van Horn, and march down the walk, ahead of him. The action
was pretty close to rudeness, for it left the elder man in the rear.
Evidently, in spite of his irritation, Burns instantly realized this, for
he turned again, saying quickly: "I beg your pardon, Doctor, but I've got
a lot of work waiting."

"Don't apologize, Doctor," returned the other, with perfect courtesy. "We
all know that you are the busiest man among us."

His face, as he spoke, was as pale as Burns's was high-coloured, and
Ellen recognized that here were the two sorts of wrath in apposition, the
"red" sort and the "white." And looking at Dr. Van Horn's face, it seemed
to her that she still preferred the red. But as his eyes met hers he