III-XI

The year, in the immemorial, minute shifting
of season, grew brittle and cold; the dusk
fell sooner and night lingered late into
morning.

William Vibard moved with his accordion from
the porch to beside the kitchen stove. He was in
the throes of a new piece, McGinty, and Gordon
Makimmon was correspondingly surprised when, as
he was intent upon some papers, Rose's husband
voluntarily relinquished his instrument, and sat in
the room with him.

"What's the matter," Gordon indifferently inquired;
"is she busted?"

William Vibard indignantly repudiated that possibility.
A wave of purpose rose to the long, corrugated
countenance, but sank, without finding expression
in speech. Finally Gordon heard Rose calling
her husband. That young man twitched in his
chair, but he made no other move, no answer. Her
voice rose again, sharp and urgent, and Gordon observed:

"Your wife's a-calling."

[[314]]

p313 _ -chap- _ toc-1 _ p314w _ toc-2 _ +chap+ _ p315

v?