"I'll sell the farm," he shouted. "I'll sell every cow and horse on it. I'll sell the bed from under you—I'll break you and your stuck-up ways, and you'll not get a cent of money from me—not if your tongue was hanging out."
The children shrank into corners and pitifully tried to efface themselves. The dog, with drooping tail, sought shelter under the table.
Sylvester Paine thought he saw a shrinking in her face, and followed up his advantage with a fresh outpouring of abuse.
"There's no one to help you—or be sorry for you—you haven't a friend in this neighborhood, with your stuck-up way. The women are sore on you—none of them ever come to see you or even phone you. Don't you think I see it! You've no one to turn to, so you might as well know it—I've got you!"
His last words were almost screamed at her, as he strove to make his voice sound above the storm, and in a sudden lull of the storm, they rang through the house.
At the same moment there was a sound of something falling against the door and the dog, with bristling hair, ran out from his place of shelter.
Mrs. Paine turned quickly to the door and opened it, letting in a gust of blinding snow, which eddied in the room and melted on the hot stove.
A man, covered with snow, lay where he had fallen, exhausted on the doorstep.
"What's this," cried Paine, in a loud voice, as he ran forward; "where did this fellow come from?"
In his excitement he asked it over and over again, as if Mrs. Paine should know. She ventured no opinion, but busied herself in getting the snow from the clothes of her visitor and placing him in the rocking chair beside the fire. He soon recovered the power of speech, and thanked her gaspingly, but with deep sincerity.