withdrawn. It was dark, unkempt, and the movement was stealthy.

"That's him!" said Mrs. Wadleigh, grimly, and returning to the charge,
she knocked civilly at the door. No answer. Then she pushed again. It
would not yield. She thought of the ladder in the barn, of the small
cellar-window; vain hopes, both of them!

"Look here!" she called aloud. "You let me in! I'm the Widder Wadleigh!
This is my own house, an' I'm real tried stan'in' round here, knockin'
at my own front door. You le'me in, or I shall git my death o' cold!"

No answer; and then Mrs. Wadleigh, as she afterwards explained it, "got
mad." She ploughed her way round the side of the house,--not the side
where she had seen the face, but by the "best-room" windows,--and
stepped softly up to the back door. Cyrus Pendleton's nail was no
longer there. The man had easily pushed it out. She lifted the latch,
and set her shoulder against the panel.

"If it's the same old button, it'll give," she thought. And it did
give. She walked steadily across the kitchen toward the clock-room,
where the man that moment turned to confront her. He made a little run
forward; then, seeing but one woman, he restrained himself. He was not
over thirty years old; a tall, well-built fellow, with very black eyes
and black hair. His features were good, but just now his mouth was set,
and he looked darkly defiant. Of this, however, Mrs. Wadleigh did not
think, for she was in a hot rage.

"What under the sun do you mean, lockin' me out o' my own house?" she
cried, stretching out her reddened hands to the fire. "An' potaters
b'iled all over this good kitchen stove! I declare, this room's a real