Elliott did not love his wife and he was a very disagreeable man. He was, perhaps, a little mad, but his wife never got that way. She had a very sweet forgiving nature. The great boulders always narrowly missed the tiny cabin. They bounded over, knocking the top off the chimney, and she had to rebuild it every morning. But the sad-eyed saint never complained.
IX
Thither came Woncefell, the Wanderer.
“Magdalene Virey, why do you dwell in this horrible place?” he asked.
“Woncefell, the Wanderer,” she answered, “I love the silence, the loneliness, the mystery of the great open spaces and, besides, dear Elliott finds his rock-golf so amusing. He is so ambitious to make the chimney in one.
“I can endure it only because I am sustained by my faith in G—d and by the hope that some night he’ll break his dod-gasted neck or pinch his fingers or something.”
“Magdalene Virey,” he said, “why does he do it?”
“Woncefell, the Wanderer,” she said, “because my daughter Ruth is not Elliott Virey’s daughter.”
“Magdalene Virey, who is Elliott Virey’s daughter, then?” he asked.
“Woncefell, the Wanderer, I do not know,” she answered.