THE FIGHTING SHEPHERDESS
known were in his vocabulary as he extolled Kate and her achievements. Emotion welled within him until his col- lar choked him, so he removed it, while the pen spread with the force he put into the actual writing. And when he had finished, he walked the floor reading the editorial, his voice vibrating, tingling with his own eloquence. The article snorted defiance. Mr. Butefish tacitly waved the bright flag of personal freedom in the face of Public Opinion. He bellowed his liberty, as it were, over Kate's shoulder. He strode, he swaggered — he had not known such a glorious feeling of independence since he left off plumbing. And he could go back to it if he had to I Mr. Butefish stopped in the middle of the floor and showed his teeth at an invisible audience of advertisers and subscribers.
The article came out exactly as written. Reflection did not temper Mr. Butefish's attitude with caution. The bruised worm not only had turned, but rolled clean over.
The following week, Kate rode into Prouty in ignorance of the flattering tribute which the editor had paid her. Coming at a leisurely gait down Main Street she looked as usual in pitiless scrutiny at the signs which told of the collapse of the town's prosperity. She saw without compassion the graying hair, the tired eyes of anxiety, the lines of brooding and despondency deepening in faces she re- membered as carefree and hopeful, the look of resigna- tion that comes to the weaklings who have lost their grip, the emptiness of burned-out passion, the weary languor of repeated failure — she saw it all through the eyes of her relentless hatred.
But to-day there was a something different which, in her extreme sensitiveness, she was quick to see and feel.
There was a new expression in the eyes of the passersby
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