V.

Westover had his tea with the family, but nothing was said or done to
show that any of them resented or even knew of what had happened to the
boy from him. Jeff himself seemed to have no grudge. He went out with
Westover, when the meal was ended, and sat on the steps of the porch with
him, watching the painter watch the light darken on the lonely heights
and in the lonely depths around. Westover smoked a pipe, and the fire
gleamed and smouldered in it regularly with his breathing; the boy, on a
lower' step, pulled at the long ears of his dog and gazed up at him.

They were both silent till the painter asked: "What do you do here when
you're not trying to scare little children to death?"

The boy hung his head and said, with the effect of excusing a long
arrears of uselessness: "I'm goin' to school as soon as it commences."

"There's one branch of your education that I should like to undertake if
I ever saw you at a thing like that again. Don't you feel ashamed of
yourself?"

The boy pulled so hard at the dog's ear that the dog gave a faint yelp of
protest.

"They might 'a' seen that I had him by the collar. I wa'n't a-goin' to
let go."