Mrs. Wadleigh pressed her lips together in a voiceless content, and her
eyes took on a new brightness. She had lived quite long enough in the
town. Rounding a sweeping bend, and ploughing sturdily along, though it
was difficult here to find the roadway, she kept her eyes fixed on a
patch of sky, over a low elm, where the chimney would first come into
view. But just before it stepped forward to meet her, as she had seen
it a thousand times, a telltale token forestalled it; a delicate blue
haze crept out, in spiral rings, and tinged the sky.

"He's got a fire!" she exclaimed loudly. "He's there! My soul!" Until
now the enormity of his offence had not penetrated her understanding.
She had heard the fact without realizing it.

The house was ancient but trimly kept, and it stood within a spacious
yard, now in billows and mounds of snow, under which lay the treasures
inherited by the spring. The trellises on either side the door held the
bare clinging arms of jessamine and rose, and the syringa and lilac
bushes reached hardily above the snow. As Mrs. Wadleigh approached the
door, she gave a rapid glance at the hop-pole in the garden, and
wondered if its vine had stood the winter well. That was the third hop
vine she'd had from Mirandy Pendleton! Mounting the front steps, she
drew forth the key, and put it in the door. It turned readily enough,
but though she gave more than one valiant push, the door itself did not
yield. It was evidently barricaded.

"My soul!" said Mrs. Wadleigh.

She stepped back, to survey the possibilities of attack; but at that
instant, glancing up at the window, she had Cyrus Pendleton's own
alarming experience. A head looked out at her, and was quickly