A portrait of one of John's ancestors hangs over the great
mantelpiece--of that sturdy Captain Ingerfield who fought the King's
frigate rather than give up one of his people. Anne glances from the
dead face to the living and notes the strong likeness between them.
Through her half-closed eyes she sees the grim old captain hurling
back his message of defiance, and his face is the face she saw a few
hours ago, saying, "I mean to stop here with you and do what I can
for you. None of my people shall want."

John is placing a chair for her at the table, and the light from the
candles falls upon him. She steals another glance at his face--a
strong, stern, handsome face, capable of becoming a noble face. Anne
wonders if it has ever looked down tenderly at anyone; feels a sudden
fierce pain at the thought; dismisses the thought as impossible;
wonders, nevertheless, how tenderness would suit it; thinks she would
like to see a look of tenderness upon it, simply out of curiosity;
wonders if she ever will.

She rouses herself from her reverie as John, with a smile, tells her
supper is ready, and they seat themselves opposite each other, an odd
air of embarrassment pervading.

Day by day their work grows harder; day by day the foe grows
stronger, fiercer, more all-conquering; and day by day, fighting side
by side against it, John Ingerfield and Anne, his wife, draw closer
to each other. On the battle-field of life we learn the worth of
strength. Anne feels it good, when growing weary, to glance up and
find him near her; feels it good, amid the troubled babel round her,
to hear the deep, strong music of his voice.