The painter hurled himself upon him, and, with a quick grip upon his collar, gave him half a dozen flat-handed blows wherever he could plant them and then flung him reeling away.

“You infernal little ruffian!” he roared at him; and the sound of his voice was enough for the dog; he began to scale the hill-side toward the house without a moment’s stay.

The children still crouched together, and Westover could hardly make them understand that they were in his keeping when he bent over them and bade them not be frightened.  The little girl set about wiping the child’s eyes on her apron in a motherly fashion; her own were dry enough, and Westover fancied there was more of fury than of fright in her face.  She seemed lost to any sense of his presence, and kept on talking fiercely to herself, while she put the little boy in order, like an indignant woman.

“Great, mean, ugly thing!  I’ll tell the teacher on him, that’s what I will, as soon as ever school begins.  I’ll see if he can come round with that dog of his scaring folks!  I wouldn’t ‘a’ been a bit afraid if it hadn’t ‘a’ been for Franky.  Don’t cry any more, Franky.  Don’t you see they’re gone?  I presume he thinks it smart to scare a little boy and a girl.  If I was a boy once, I’d show him!”

She made no sign of gratitude to Westover:  as far as any recognition from her was concerned, his intervention was something as impersonal as if it had been a thunder-bolt falling upon her enemies from the sky.

“Where do you live?” he asked.  “I’ll go home with you if you’ll tell me where you live.”

She looked up at him in a daze, and Westover heard the Durgin boy saying:  “She lives right there in that little wood-colored house at the other end of the lane.  There ain’t no call to go home with her.”

Westover turned and saw the boy kneeling at the edge of a clump of bushes, where he must have struck; he was rubbing, with a tuft of grass, at the dirt ground into the knees of his trousers.

The little, girl turned hawkishly upon him.  “Not for anything you can do, Jeff Durgin!”

The boy did not answer.

“There!” she said, giving a final pull and twitch to the dress of her brother, and taking him by the hand tenderly.  “Now, come right along, Franky.”

“Let me have your other hand,” said Westover, and, with the little boy between them, they set off toward the point where the lane joined the road on the northward.  They had to pass the bushes where Jeff Durgin was crouching, and the little girl turned and made a face at him.  “Oh, oh!  I don’t think I should have done that,” said Westover.

“I don’t care!” said the little girl.  But she said, in explanation and partial excuse:  “He tries to scare all the girls.  I’ll let him know ’t he can’t scare one!”

Westover looked up toward the Durgin house with a return of interest in the canvas he had left in the lane on the easel.  Nothing had happened to it.  At the door of the barn he saw the farmer and his eldest son slanting forward and staring down the hill at the point he had come from.  Mrs. Durgin was looking out from the shelter of the porch, and she turned and went in with Jeff’s dog at her skirts when Westover came in sight with the children.