He rubbed the greasy fingers into his hair, while Mrs. Howth’s eyes were fixed in dumb perplexity.

“Ye see,”—­slowly, determined to make it clear to her now and forever,—­“it’s water:  no, t’ a’n’t water:  it’s troubled me an’ Mester Howth some time in Poke Run, atop o’’t.  I hed my suspicions,—­so’d he; lay low, though, frum all women-folks.  So’s I tuk a bottle down, unbeknown, to Squire More, an’ it’s oil!”—­jumping like a wild Indian,—­“thank the Lord fur His marcies, it’s oil!”

“Well, Joel,” she said, calmly, “very disagreeably smelling oil it is, I must say.”

“Good save the woman!” he broke out, sotto voce, “she’s a born natural!  Did ye never hear of a shaft? or millions o’ gallons a day?  It’s better nor a California ranch, I tell ye.  Mebbe,” charitably, “ye didn’t know Poke Run’s the mester’s?”

“I certainly do.  But I do not see what this green ditch-water is to me.  And I think, Joel,”—­

“It’s more to ye nor all yer States’-rights as I’m sick o’ hearin’ of.  It’s carpets, an’ bunnets, an’ slithers of railroad-stock, an’ some color on Margot’s cheeks,—­ye’d best think o’ that!  That’s what it is to ye!  I’m goin’ to take stock myself.  I’m glad that gell’ll git rest frum her mills an’ her Houses o’ Deviltry,—­she’s got gumption fur a dozen women.”

He went on muttering, as he gathered up his pint-pot and bottle,—­

“I’m goin’ to send my Tim to college soon’s the thing’s in runnin’ order.  Lord! what a lawyer that boy’ll make!”

Mrs. Howth’s brain was still muddled.

“You are better pleased than you were at the election,” she observed, placidly.

“Politics be darned!” he broke out, forgetting the teachings of Mr. Clinche.  “Now, Mem, dun’t ye muddle the mester’s brain t’-night wi’ ’t, I say.  I’m goin’ t’ ’xperiment myself a bit.”

Which he did, accordingly,—­shutting himself up in the smoke-house, and burning the compound in divers sconces and Wide-Awake torches, giving up the entire night to his diabolical orgies.

Mrs. Howth did not tell the master, for one reason:  it took a long time for so stupendous an idea to penetrate the good lady’s brain; and for another:  her motherly heart was touched by another story than this Aladdin’s lamp of Joel’s wherein burned petroleum.  She watched from her window until she saw Holmes crossing the icy road:  there was a little bitterness, I confess, in the thought that he had taken her child from her; but the prayer that rose for them both took her whole woman’s heart with it, and surely will be answered.

The road was rough over the hills; the wind that struck Holmes’s face bitingly keen:  perhaps the life coming for him would be as cold a struggle, having not only poverty to conquer, but himself.  But he is a strong man,—­no stronger puts his foot down with cool, resolute tread; and to-night there is a thrill on his lips that never rested there before,—­a kiss, dewy and warm.  Something, too, stirs in his heart, like a subtile atom of pure fire, that he hugs closely,—­his for all time.  No poverty or death shall ever drive it away.  Perhaps he entertains an angel unaware.