“He didn’t do ’em no harm,” she babbled.  “They’re just wet.  Please, Mart, they ain’t harmed a mite.  Just wet.  That’s all.  Tobey went on the beach with ’em.  It won’t take but a little spell to dry ’em.”

Her husband stooped and snatched up the shoes.  She shrank into herself, waiting the inevitable torrent of his passion and the probable blow.  Instead, as he stood up he was smiling.  Bewildered, she stared at him in a dull silence.

“No harm done,” he said, almost amiably.  Shaking with relief, she stretched out her hand.

“I’ll dry ’em,” she said.  “Give me your shoes and I’ll get the mud off.”

Her husband shook his head.  He was still smiling.

“Don’t need to dry ’em.  I’ll put ’em away,” he replied, and, still tracking his wet mud, he went into Tobey’s room.

Her fear flowed into another channel.  She dreaded her husband in his black rages, but she feared him more now in his unusual amiability.  Perhaps he would strike Tobey when he saw him.  She strained her ears to listen.

A long silence followed his exit.  But there was no outcry from Tobey, no muttering nor blows.  After a few moments, moving quickly, her husband came out.  She raised her heavy eyes to stare at him.  He stopped and looked intently at his own muddy tracks.

“I’ll get a rag and wipe up the mud right off.”

As she started toward the nail where the rag hung, her husband put out a long arm and detained her.  “Leave it be,” he said.  He smiled again.

She noticed, then, that he had removed his muddy shoes and wore the wet ones.  He had fully laced them, and she had almost a compassionate moment as she thought how wet and cold his feet must be.

“You can put your feet in the oven, Mart, to dry ’em.”

Close on her words she heard the sound of footsteps and a sharp knock followed on the sagging door.  Mart Brenner sat down on a chair close to the stove and lifted one foot into the oven.  “See who’s there!” he ordered.

She opened the door and peered out.  A group of men stood on the step, the faint light of the room picking out face after face that she recognized—­Sheriff Munn; Jim Barker, who kept the grocery in the village; Cottrell Hampstead, who lived in the next house below them; young Dick Roamer, Munn’s deputy; and several strangers.

“Well?” she asked ungraciously.

“We want to see Brenner!” one of them said.

She stepped back.  “Come in,” she told them.  They came in, pulling off their caps, and stood huddled in a group in the centre of the room.

Her husband reluctantly stood up.

“Evening!” he said, with his unusual smile.  “Bad out, ain’t it?”

“Yep!” Munn replied.  “Heavy fog.  We’re soaked.”

Olga Brenner’s pitiful instinct of hospitality rose in her breast.

“I got some hot soup on the stove.  Set a spell and I’ll dish you some,” she urged.