“Hi, some one is knocking on the front door.  Do go and see who it is.”

“O! let ’em knock, Anna; don’t let’s break up our party for strangers.”

“Well, Hi, I’ll have to go myself,” and she laid down the corn-popper, but the boy got up grumbling, lurched to the door and let in Lennox Sanderson.

“’Tain’t nobody at home, Mr. Sanderson,” said Hi, inhospitably blocking the way.  Anna had crouched over the fire, as if to obliterate herself.

“Here, Hi, you take this and go out and hold my horse; he’s mettlesome as the deuce this cold weather.  I want to get warm before I go to Putnam’s.”

Hi put on his muffler, mits and cap—­each with a favorite “swear word,” such as “ding it,” “dum it,” “darn it.”  Nevertheless he wisely concluded to take the half dollar from him and save it for the spring crop of circuses.

Anna started to leave the room, but Sanderson’s peremptory “Stay here, I’ve got to talk to you,” detained her.

They looked into each other’s faces—­these two, who but a few short months ago had been all in all to each other—­and the dead fire was not colder than their looks.

“Well, Anna,” he said sneeringly, “what’s your game?  You’ve been hanging about here ever since I came to the neighborhood.  How much do you want to go away?”

“Nothing that you could give me, Lennox Sanderson.  My only wish is that I might be spared the sight of you.”

“Don’t beat around the bush, Anna; is it money, or what?  You are not foolish enough to try to compel me to marry you?”

“Nothing could be further from my mind.  I did think once of compelling you to right the wrong you have done me, but that is past.  It is buried in the grave with my child.”

“Then the child is dead?” He came over to the fireplace where she stood, but she drew away from him.

“You have nothing to fear from me, Lennox Sanderson.  The love I felt once is dead, and I have no feeling for you now but contempt.”

“You need not rub it in like that, Anna.  I was perfectly willing to do the square thing by you always, but you flared up, went away, and Heaven only knew what became of you.  It’s bad enough to have things made unpleasant for me in Boston on your account without having you queering my plans here.”

“Boston—­I never told anyone in Boston.”

“No, but that row got into the papers about Langdon and the Tremonts cut me.”

“Hush,” said Anna, as a spasm of pain crossed her face:  “I never wish you to refer to my past life again.”

“Indeed, Anna, I am only too anxious to do the right thing by you, even now.  If you will go away, I will give you what you want, if you don’t intend to interfere between Kate and me.”

“Are you sure that Kate is in earnest?  You know that the Squire intends her to marry Dave.”

“I shall have no difficulty in preventing that if you don’t interfere.”