Anna could not help feeling the “snub,” and David, whose eyes always followed Anna, saw it before the others.  “Father,” said he, “what’s the matter, you don’t speak to Anna.”

“I don’t want to speak to her.  I don’t want to look at her.  I don’t want anything to do with her,” replied the Squire.  Every one except Martha and Mrs. Bartlett was startled by this blunt, almost brutal outburst.

“I am glad you are all here, the more the better:  Marthy, Professor, Mr. Sanderson, glad to see you and all the home folks”—­he had a word, a nod, a pat on the back for every one but Anna, and though she sought more than one opportunity to speak to him, he deliberately avoided her.

His wife, who knew all the varying weathers of his temper was using all her small stock of diplomacy to get him to eat his supper.  “When in doubt about a man, feed him,” had been Louisa Bartlett’s unfailing rule for the last thirty years.  “Here, Amasy, sit down in your place that Anna has fixed for you.  You can talk after you’ve had your tea.  Anna, please make the Squire some fresh tea.  I’m afraid this is a little cool.”

“She need not make my tea, now, or on any future occasion—­her days of service in my family are done for.”  And he hammered the table with his clenched fist.

Anna closed her eyes; it had come at last; she had always known that it was only a question of time.

The rest looked at the Squire dumbfounded.  Ah, that is, but Marthy.  She was licking her lips in delightful anticipation—­with much the same expression as a cat would regard an uncaged canary.

“Why, father, what do you mean?” asked David in amazement.  He had heard no rumor of why his father had gone to Belden.

“Now, listen, all of you,” and again he thundered on the table with his fist.  “Last summer I was persuaded, against my will, to take a strange woman into my house.  I found out to-day that my judgment then was right.  I have been imposed on—­she is an imposter, an adventuress.”

“Amasy, Amasy, don’t be so hard on her,” pleaded his wife.  But the Squire had the true huntsman’s instinct—­when he went out to hunt, he went out to kill.

“The time has come,” he continued, raising his voice and ignoring his wife’s pleading, “when this home is better without her.”

Anna had already begun her preparation to go.  She took her cloak down from its peg and wrapped it about her without a word.

“Father, if Anna goes, I go with her,” and David rose to his feet, the very incarnation of wrath, and strode over to where Anna stood apart from the rest.  He put his arm about her protectingly, and stood there defiant of them all.

“David, you must be mad.  What, you, a son of mine, defy your father here in the presence of your friends for that—­adventuress?”

“Father, take back that word about Anna.  A better woman never lived.  You—­who call yourself a Christian—­would you send away a friendless girl a night like this?  And for what reason?  Because a few old cats have been gossiping about her.  It is unworthy of you, father; I would not have believed it.”