David smiled down at her convulsed face.  “She’s nothing but a woman,” he thought to himself, and he thought also, with a throb of angry relief, that she had not killed Lot Gordon.  “Come along home and red up the house, and let’s have no more fooling,” he said, roughly, and strode on faster and would not say another word, although Madelon besought him hard to assure her that he believed her, and that Burr should not be hanged, until they reached the Hautville house.  Then he turned on her and said, with keen sarcasm that stung more than a whip-lash, “’Tis Parson Fair’s daughter and not mine that should come down the road in broad daylight a-bawling for Burr Gordon.”

Madelon started back, and her face stiffened and whitened.  She shut her mouth hard and followed her father into the house.  The great living-room was empty; indeed, not one of the Hautville sons was in the house; even Louis was gone.  David took his axe out of the corner and set out for the woods to cut some cedar fire-logs.  Madelon put the house in order, setting the kitchen and pantry to rights, going through the icy chambers and making the high feather beds.  In her own room she paused long and searched again, holding up her red cloak and her ball dress to the window, where they caught the wintry light, for a stain of blood that might prove her guilt; but she could find none.

Madelon prepared dinner for her father and brothers as usual, and when it was ready to be dished she stood in the doorway, with the north wind buffeting her in the face, and blew the dinner-horn with a blast that could be heard far off in the woods.

Presently her father emerged from under the snowy boughs with his axe over his shoulder, and shortly afterwards Eugene and Abner came, in Indian file, with their guns.  Eugene was carrying a fat rabbit by its long ears.  Louis and Richard did not come at all.  David asked sternly of their brothers where they were, but neither Eugene nor Abner knew.  They had not seen them since David and Madelon left for Lot Gordon’s that morning.

Madelon set the food before her father and her brothers, and took her place as usual, and ate as she might have filled a crock with milk or cakes, tasting nothing which she put into her mouth.  She did not during the meal say another word concerning the tragedy in which she was living, but there was a strange silent vehemence and fire about her which seemed louder than speech.  Now and then her father and her brothers started and stared at her as if she had cried out.  Two red spots had come on her brown cheeks; her eyes were glittering with dark light; her lips were a firm red; her fingers stiffened with nervous clutches.  She looked as if every muscle in her were strained and rigid for a leap.

After dinner Eugene and Abner went out again with their guns, and David smoked his old pipe by the fire, while Madelon put away the dishes and swept the floor.  When her work was finished the pipe was smoked out, and David rose up slowly, clapped his fur cap over his white head, and took up his axe.