arm curved around it. He reached out his slender hand and caught hold
of her dress-skirt; she jerked away with a haughty motion, and set
the bowl on the hearth. "You'd better rake down the fire now,
Richard," said she.

The boy jostled Lot roughly as he passed around him to get the
fire-shovel. Lot looked at the clock, and the hand was near twelve.
He arose slowly.

"I met Burr on his way down to Parson Fair's," he said.

Madelon covered up the bread closely with a linen towel. There was a
surging in her ears, as if misery itself had a veritable sound, and
her face was as white as the ashes on the hearth, but she kept it
turned away from Lot.

"Well," said he, in his husky drawl, "a rose isn't a rose to a bee,
she's only a honey-pot; and she's only one out of a shelfful to him;
she can't complain, it's what she was born to. If she finds any fault
it's got to be with creation, and what's one rose to face creation?
There's nothing to do but to make the best of it. Good-night,
Madelon."

"Good-night," said Madelon. The color had come back to her cheeks,
and she looked back at him proudly, standing beside her bread-bowl on
the hearth.

Lot passed out, turning his delicate face over his shoulder with a
subtle smile as he went. Richard clapped the door to after him with a
jar that shook the house, and shot the bolt viciously. "I'll get my