A cool, attentive motion,--that was all. Then she stooped to tie
her sandals. The old man watched her, irritated. She had been
used to the keen scrutiny of his eyes since she was a baby, so
was cool under it always. The face watching her was one that
repelled most men: dominant, restless, flushing into red gusts of
passion, a small, intolerant eye, half hidden in folds of yellow
fat,--the eye of a man who would give to his master (whether God
or Satan) the last drop of his own blood, and exact the same of
other men.

She had tied her bonnet and fastened her shawl, and stood ready to go.

"Is that all you want?" he demanded. "Are you waiting to hear
that your work is well done? Women go through life as babies
learn to walk,--a mouthful of pap every step, only they take it
in praise or love. Pap is better. Which do you want? Praise, I fancy."

"Neither," she said, quietly brushing her shawl. "The work is
well done, I know."

The old man's eye glittered for an instant, satisfied; then he
turned to the books. He thought she had gone, but, hearing a
slight clicking sound, turned round. She was taking the chicken
out of the cage.

"Let it alone!" he broke out, sharply. "Where are you going with it?"

"Home," she said, with a queer, quizzical face. "Let it smell
the green fields, Doctor. Ledgers and copperas are not good food
for a chicken's soul, or body either."