“I decided it was time I had a wife,” Hazen used to say to me.

The child was on the floor.  The woman had a drink of milk and egg and rum, hot and ready for us.  We drank, and Hazen knelt beside the child.  A boy baby, not yet two years old.  It is an ugly thing to say, but I hated this child.  There was evil malevolence in his baby eyes.  I have sometimes thought the grey devils must have left just such hate-bred babes as this in France.  Also, he was deformed—­a twisted leg.  The women of the neighbourhood sometimes said he would be better dead.  But Hazen Kinch loved him.  He lifted him in his arms now with a curious passion in his movement, and the child stared at him sullenly.  When the mother came near the baby squalled at her, and Hazen said roughly: 

“Stand away!  Leave him alone!”

She moved back furtively; and Hazen asked me, displaying the child:  “A fine boy, eh?”

I said nothing, and in his cracked old voice he mumbled endearments to the baby.  I had often wondered whether his love for the child redeemed the man; or merely made him vulnerable.  Certainly any harm that might come to the baby would be a crushing blow to Hazen.

He put the child down on the floor again and he said to the woman curtly:  “Tend him well.”  She nodded.  There was a dumb submission in her eyes; but through this blank veil I had seen now and then a blaze of pain.

Hazen went out of the door without further word to her, and I followed him.  We got into the sleigh, bundling ourselves into the robes for the six-mile drive along the drifted road to town.  There was a feeling of storm in the air.  I looked at the sky and so did Hazen Kinch.  He guessed what I would have said and he answered me before I could speak.

“I’ll not have it snowing,” he said, and leered at me.

Nevertheless, I knew the storm would come.  The mare turned out of the barnyard and ploughed through a drift and struck hard-packed road.  Her hoofs beat a swift tattoo; our runners sang beneath us.  We dropped to the little bridge and across and began the mile-long climb to the top of Rayborn Hill.  The road from Hazen’s house to town is compounded of such ups and downs.

At the top of the hill we paused for a moment to breathe the mare; paused just in front of the big old Rayborn house, that has stood there for more years than most of us remember.  It was closed and shuttered and deserted; and Hazen dipped his whip toward it and said meanly: 

“An ugly, improvident lot, the Rayborns were.”

I had known only one of them—­the eldest son.  A fine man, I had thought him.  Picking apples in his orchard, he fell one October and broke his neck.  His widow tried to make a go of the place, but she borrowed of Hazen and he had evicted her this three months back.  It was one of the lesser evils he had done.  I looked at the house and at him, and he clucked to the mare and we dipped down into the steep valley below the hill.