ter. They bought this house, too. A lot of niggers are movin' in to-morrow."
The blood was running from his cut knuckles and he bound them round silently with a red cotton handkerchief. Presently, he said, "You're looking for your paints and pictures. . . . They ain't here. . . . Mrs. Conyngham took 'em away."
"Mrs. Conyngham!"
"Yeah. . . . She came and got 'em herself. She's fixed up a place for you up at Shane's Castle . . . in the stable. I was to tell you and I forgot. She did it when she heard about the Mills buyin' up this row of houses. It's in the stable and you're to go up there whenever you want. There's a stove and everything."
He spoke in agitation, as though the paints, the pictures, were nothing compared to his own troubles. A little thing, of no use! Suddenly he turned, "And you, what are you goin' to do?"
"When?"
"Now you're finished, too. They've done with you, too. You're one of 'em. Don't forget that."
Yes, that was a thing he hadn't thought of. There must be people in the Town who hated him the way they hated the Shanes, and perhaps Mary Conyngham . . . as renegades, traitors. And while he waited there in the squalid room, watching Krylenko sitting with his head buried in his hands, there came to him for the first time a curious, intoxicating sense of satisfaction in being one of that odd little band—Krylenko, the saintly Irene, the dying old woman in Shane's Castle, and Mary Conyngham. The wind had begun to rise, and with it little gusts of snow swirled in through the broken window. He thought suddenly,
