After one o'clock on the afternoon before Christmas was a mill holiday; and while the great looms were silent, those who usually toiled at them took their way into Wallburg city to do their Christmas shopping. Though a few, indeed, were able to satisfy their needs at the local stores, and among these, for once, was Gwendolyn. She had come up the knoll after dinner hour, to invite Amy's presence at the gift buying, and concluded her invitation by saying: —

"Even if you won't get anything yourself, you might come and look at the pretty things. It's surprising how many you find you can pick out in a few minutes. They've the loveliest dolls there 't I'm going to get for Beatrice and Belinda. Victoria's so big she's outgrown doll – "

Cleena could hold her tongue no longer.

"Toys, is it, alanna! Better be shoes for their feet; an' as for Queen Victory an' her dolls, more's the shame to you as sets her the example o' growin' up before her time. Vases for the mother, is it? An' she after patchin' the sheets off her bed. Pardon unasked advice, which same is unsavory, belike, an' get the makin' of a new pair. That's sense, so it is."

It was sense. As such it commended itself to Gwendolyn, during her walk to the village, and bore results for the comfort of her family; for though she did run in debt to make her Christmas gifts, at least she now altered her usual habit completely, and for each member of the household provided some article of use. Even Mrs. Hackett paused in her busy attendance upon the crowd of customers to remark: —

"Well, now, Gwen, that's a good plan. I guess your folks will be proud of what you're giving them this year. Yes, I'm more 'n willing to trust you for 'em. A girl that'll spend her money as you are, isn't going to cheat me in the long run. Yes, the wagon'll be going out late to-night and will fetch 'em all for you. Flannel and sheeting and such are a mighty sight heavier to carry than notions. But say, I'll put in a little candy for the youngsters, seeing they're disappointed of their dolls."

Meanwhile, up at "Charity House," Amy had drawn Cleena into a corner to discuss their own plans, and especially to ask concerning a proposed trip to the city, by her father, and immediately after the holidays.

"You know, Goodsoul, that he hasn't been there alone in a long time. Is it safe for him to go now? If he should have one of his attacks, what would happen? Should Hallam go with him? and – worst of all – how can we spare the money?"

"Faith, Miss Amy, I'd leave the master be. It's the fine sense he's gettin' the now. It would hearten the mistress could she see how he does be pickin' up. Always that gentle I d' know, as if the sorrow had been a broom sweepin' his soul all free of the moilder an' muss was in it long by. Only yesternight, whilst I was just washin' off me table afore layin' me cloth, into the kitchen he steps an' sits himself down by the door, lookin' out toward Fairacres. It was as soft as summer, like it is this eve, but faith! a 'green Christmas makes a fat graveyard.'"

The very word made them both silent for a moment, and then Amy resumed: —

"Father has packed up a half a dozen or more of his small canvases, studies of heads most of them are, I believe, and all are unframed. What do you suppose he means to do with them?"

"Sell them. What for no?"

"But mother never liked to have him. These are all pictures he did long ago."

"The quicker they'll go off the hand then."

"Do you approve?"

"With all me heart."

Amy dropped her face on her palms and considered the matter. Even with her habit of dealing with facts rather than fancies, she still found life a most perplexing and complex affair. The only help she gained toward understanding it was that clew taught her by her mother of matching the days and the events as one matches a fascinating puzzle. Out of this thought she spoke at last, though quite to the bewilderment of honest Cleena.

"It seems as if our losing all that belonged to us were making us sturdier folks, improving us all. Mother needed no improvement, so she hadn't to face the battle long. Well, one thing I know, she would be glad for us all, and some way I feel her very near to-day. Only, if I could just talk with her and ask her things."

"Sure ye can, me colleen. I mind it's no far to the land where she's gone. But about the money. See here; how got I this?"

And Cleena whipped out a handkerchief from her jacket pocket and unfolded it with utmost care. In this were a number of silver pieces, from half-dollars to dimes, and added together made the "smart decent sum" of five dollars and fifteen cents.

"Why, Cleena! Where? I thought all ours was spent as soon as earned."

"Where? An' I to be mendin' a few clothes for me neighbors. Even that man John fetches me a blouse now an' again, to put in a fresh pair o' sleeves or set on a button that's missin'. Sure, ye didn't think Cleena was one would be leavin' her childer bring in all the wage. Only – " and the good creature's fine face clouded dismally.

Amy's arms were around the other's neck, and her soft cheek pressed against the shoulder that had borne so many burdens for her and hers.

"Only what, you darling Scrubbub?"

"Only I was mindin' to buy a few trinkets for you an' Master Hal. 'Tis Christmas comes but once a year, an' sure me heart should give good cheer – "

"Cleena, Cleena! A poet! What next?"

"Arrah musha, no! Not one o' them sort. But it's in the air, belike. Christmastide do set the blood running hitherty-which. So they say in old Ireland. It's this way, me darling. Gifts for you an' Hal – or the trip to town for the master. Which, says you? For here's the silver will pay either one, an' it's you an' him shall decide."

"Then it's decided already. At least, I'm sure Hallam will so agree when he comes in. You know he's stopped at Mr. Metcalf's to see some books on designing. Hallam thinks that either he might learn to do it or that perhaps even father might give some odd moments to it, though I don't know as he would hardly dare propose it. The idea was Mr. Metcalf's, and he hasn't much 'sentiment' about him. He said that if there was any way in which father could make a living, he would be happier if so employed. It sounded dreadful to me at first, and then it seemed just sensible."

"That last it was, and so I b'lieve the master'll say himself. But child, child, you do be gettin' too sober notions into your bonny head. Oh, for that Balaam the spalpeen stole! But since ye can't ride, why then it's aye ye must walk. Either way, get into the open. There's not many such a day 'twixt now and Easter. Away with ye! Haven't I me pastry to make an' to-morrow Christmas? Go where ye've no thought, an' let the spirit carry ye. Then there'll be rest. But be home by nightfall, mind."

"Cleena, you dear, the kindest, truest, best woman left in this world!"

"Indeed, that's sweet decent speech, me dear; but seein' your 'world's' no bigger nor Ardsley township, I 'low I'll not be over set up by that same. Run away, child, run away!"

"Cleena, you're watching down the road. Why? Why? – I demand; and you talk of pastry, the which hasn't been in 'Charity House' since we came to it, save and except that dried apple pie sent in by Mrs. Jones."

"Ugh!" cried Cleena, making a face of contempt. "The match o' that good soul's pastry for hardness an' toughness isn't found this side of the Red Sea."

"Cleena, is that old John coming here to-day? Is it he you are watching for?"

"Why for no? If a man's more nor his share an' nobody to cook it, why shouldn't he be a bringin' it up an' lettin' a body fix it eatable? Sure, it's John himself. Ye're too sharp in the wits, an' I don't mind tellin' ye; it's all charity, Miss Amy. Him livin' by his lone an' gettin' boardin'-house truck. If he says to me, says he, 'Shall I fetch the furnishin' o' the best Christmas dinner ever cooked an' you be after preparin' it,' says he, 'only givin' me one plateful beside your nice kitchen fire,' says he, could I tell the man no, and me a good Christian? Ye know better, Miss Amy. Think o' the master, an' Master Hal, to-morrow comes. What's the good o' John, then, but to find food for me folks? Run along!"

Mr. Kaye had already gone off for one of his long tramps, over the fields and through the woods, to which he was now much given. He had taken such, at first, to subdue the restlessness which followed upon his wife's death, and as some sort of break in his unutterable loneliness. But nature had helped him more than he had dreamed; and to the pure air, the physical fatigue, and consequent sound sleep was due much of the cure of his mental illness that all who knew him now noticed.

So there was nobody who needed Amy just then, and she set off from "Charity House" at a brisk pace, resolved, as Cleena had advised, to forget all worry and labor, and "just have one good, jolly time."

She took the road upward toward the woods behind Fairacres, meaning to gather a bunch of late ferns for the decoration of the morrow's dinner table, since Cleena promised it should be a feast day, after all.

Before she quite realized it even, she had deflected from her course, remembering just then a certain glen in the grounds of her old home where rare ferns grew to prodigious size, and where no cold of winter seemed to harm them. Then once upon the familiar path every step was suggestive of some bygone outing, and led her to explore farther and still farther.

"Ah, the frost-bleached maiden-hair. Nowhere else does it last like this. It's almost as white as edelweiss, and far more graceful. I must put that in my basket, if nothing else." So she pulled it gently and with infinite care, lest she should break the delicate fronds that had outlasted their season by so long. Then there were others, dainty green and still fragrant, which she gathered eagerly; with here and there a bit of crimson-berried vine, or a patch of velvet moss.

Always she kept to the depth of the little ravine, through which ran a tiny, babbling brook. This had long ago been named "Merrywater," nor had it ever seemed gayer and more winsome than then. It was like reunion with some old beloved playmate, and Amy forgot everything but the present enjoyment as she stooped and dabbled in the water here and there. Sometimes she came to the fantastic little bridges which Hallam had used to lie upon the bank and construct out of the roots and pebbles she brought him. Where these had fallen into decay she repaired them; and at one time was busily endeavoring to force a grapevine into place when she heard a sound that made her pause in her task and spring to her feet.

"Ah-umph! A-h-u-m-ph! A-H-U-M-P-H!!!"

"Pepita! No – Balaam! Balaam, Balaam – Balaam!"

She was off up the bank in another instant. The sound was from the old stable, so dear, so familiar to her. As she ran she caught up here and there great tufts of sweet grass, such as had been neglected by the mowers, but were dear to donkey appetites.

"Oh, the precious! The blessed little beast! Won't Hallam be glad! Won't this be a Christmas gift indeed, to bring him back his own pet! How glad I am I took this way to walk, and how queer it is that he should be back in his very own old home. Is it so queer, though? Wouldn't I come, too, if I were just a burro and were set free to follow my own will? I can hardly wait to reach him."

In a moment she had done so, and had filled the manger with the still luscious grass, while climbing upon its front she had thrown her arms about the animal's neck and was assuring him, as she might a human being, that he had been sadly missed and would be most welcome home.

On his part the burro was fortunately silent, though his great, dark eyes looked volumes of affection, and he laid his big ears gently back to be out of Amy's way, while she caressed him. She smoothed his forelock, ran her fingers through his mane, patted his shaggy head, and told him that his "big velvet lips were the softest things on earth."

"Ahem!"

This remark, if such it could be called, fell upon Amy's ears so suddenly that she half tumbled backward from her perch upon the manger, and just saved herself by springing lightly down, or she thought it was lightly, until she wheeled and faced the intruder.

None other than Archibald Wingate, making a horrible grimace, and holding up one of his pudgy feet as if he were in great pain.

"Oh, I beg your pardon! I didn't know it was your foot, or you were you – I thought it was only the hay on the floor."

"Ugh! Great goodness! Umm. If you ever have the gout, young woman, you will understand how it feels to have anybody jump down full force upon your toes. Ouch! O dear! O dear!"

Amy had never been accustomed to seeing people make ado over physical suffering. She did not understand this man before her, and a thrill of distress ran through her own frame, like the touch of an electric battery.

"Oh, I am so sorry! I wouldn't have done it for anything if I had known. Can't I do something now to help you? Let me rub it or – or – lead you. You look – " In spite of her good intentions, the horrible contortions by which Mr. Wingate's countenance expressed his feelings affected her sense of the ridiculous, and she smiled. As instantly ashamed of the smile, she buried her face in her hands, and waited what would come next.

"Huh! Yes, you look sorry, of course you do, laughing at an old man after you've nearly broken his foot in two. Hmm. You're a sorry lot, the whole of you; yes, you are! O-oh!" Yet he, too, and in spite of himself, laughed; but it was at his own pitiful joke about his kinsmen being a "sorry lot."

Fortunately, Amy did not understand a jest of this nature, but she was swift to see the brightening of his face. She put her hand on his arm, and tried to draw his hand within her own.

"Maybe it won't be so bad. Lean on me, and I'll help you to a seat or to the house. And thank you, thank you so much for putting Balaam in the stable, and taking such good care of him. If Hal had known, he wouldn't have worried so about the little beast. He's been so tenderly cared for, we couldn't bear to think of him as off in the open fields with nobody but Fayette."

Mr. Wingate said not a word. He simply ceased groaning and grimacing, and he slipped his arm through Amy's, while a curious expression settled on his face. He did not lean at all heavily upon her, however, and he merely glanced toward the burro as the pair walked to the stable door. Then the animal thought it time to protest. Amy had brought him fresh grass, but she had dropped it all outside his manger, where he could not reach it. This was aggravation in the extreme. More than that, whenever, in the old days, she had been afflicted with one of these outbursts of affection, there had generally been a lump of sugar connected with it. To lose affection, hay, and sugar, all in one unhappy moment, was too much even for donkey patience.

"AH-UMPH! H-umph! A-h-u-m-p-h!"

"Whew! he's split my ears open. Plague take the beast!" cried Mr. Wingate, hurrying forward, and now stepping with suspicious freedom from lameness.

Amy hurried, too, wondering at his sudden recovery. "Oh, do you dislike his talk? I love it. I always laugh when I hear it, it is so absurd, and Pepita's was even funnier. She had a feminine note, so to speak, and she whined like a spoiled baby."

"What do you know about spoiled babies?"

"Why – nothing – only William Gladstone, he's a trifle self-willed, I think."

"William Gladstone! What do you mean? Who are you talking about? Are you all crazy together?"

"Not the English statesman, certainly. Just Mrs. Jones's youngest son. And I don't think we're crazy."

"I think you are, the whole lot. Well, will you come into the house with me? How did you know the donkey was here? Who told you?"

"He told me," laughed Amy. "Yes, I'll go in if you wish, if I can help you."

"How did he tell you?"

"I was gathering these ferns in the glen, and I heard him bray. See, aren't they beautiful? They're for the table to-morrow. The prettiest ferns in all Fairacres grow along the banks of 'Merrywater.'"

"Yes, I know. I used to gather them when I was a child. My grandmother liked them, though she called them plain 'brakes.' So you're not afraid to trespass, then? And you're able to have a dinner-party even so soon after – and with all the pretended devotion. But Cuthbert – "

Amy's hand went up to her kinsman's lips. It was a habit of hers, sometimes playfully sometimes earnestly used, to ward off anything she did not wish another to say to her, and she had done it before she thought; but having so done she would not withdraw her silent protest. This man should never say, nor would she ever hear, a word against her father. Of that she was determined, even though she must be rude to prevent.

For a moment Archibald Wingate resented the girl's correction. Then, as her hand dropped to her side and her gaze to the ground, he spoke: —

"You are right. I had no business to so speak. I honor you for your filial loyalty and – Come into the house. I have something I wish to discuss with you. So you want to thank me for taking care of Balaam, do you? You may feel differently after you have heard what I have to say. Oh, you did give me a twinge, I tell you!"

"Would it relieve the pain if I bathed the foot for you? Or is there anybody else to do it?"

"Would you do that for me?"

"Certainly."

"Ring that bell."

Amy obeyed. It was the familiar one which summoned, or had summoned, Cleena from her kitchen.

A man answered the call.

"Marshall, have a foot-bath brought in here. This young lady is going to dress my foot for me. For once there'll be no blundering heavy-handed servant to hurt me."

Over and over and over Amy washed and soothed the red, misshapen foot. The repugnance she had felt to touching it had all vanished when she saw how acute must have been the old man's suffering and his now evident relief.

"I thought you made a big fuss. Now I don't see how you walk about at all."

"I walk on my will," answered he, grimly. "You're a good girl; yes, you are. You're a real Kaye. Our women were all good nurses and tender-handed. It's a pity – such a pity!"

Amy thought the prodigious sigh that moved his mighty breast was for his own distress, and echoed his regret sincerely. "Yes; it is a pity. It seems to me it should be cured. I wish it could."

"So do I. Say, little woman, suppose you and I try to cure it."

Amy looked up. She had been speaking simply of his disease. She now saw that he had not been thinking of that at all. For the moment, while she so gently manipulated the swollen ankle and bound it with the lotions Marshall handed her, he had been quite comfortable, and the keen twinkle in his eye set her thinking. Was it the family feud he wished might be healed? He, who was the very foundation and cause of it?

She caught his hand in both hers, eagerly.

"Do you mean that we might live at peace; in love, as kinsfolk should? Now – this peace day – when the Christ child comes? Is it that?"

But Marshall made a little motion which might be warning or contempt. The old man's face hardened again.

"What are you asking? Look, you've wet my cuffs! Your hands just out of hot water and all liniment!"

"Never mind your cuffs. Look out for your heart. You're a poor, lonely old fellow, and I'm sorry for you."

Before he knew what she was about, Amy had thrown her arms about her cousin's neck and imprinted a kiss – somewhere. It didn't much matter that it landed squarely on the tip of his pudgy nose. Archibald Wingate was so little in the habit of receiving kisses that he might easily have imagined this was quite the customary place for their bestowal.

CHAPTER XXI.
A PECULIAR INVITATION

It would be difficult to tell which was the most startled. Amy stepped back from the unresponsive object of her affectionate impulse and blushed furiously. She feared that he would think her bold and silly, yet she had only meant to be kind, to comfort him because she pitied him. Now, she was painfully conscious that Marshall was standing near, coolly observant, with a cynical smile upon his thin lips. It was a curious fact, which Amy instantly recognized, that this master of whom so many people stood in awe should himself stand in awe of his own valet.

"Ahem – shall I remove the bath, sir? Has the young person finished?"

Amy had not been accustomed to hearing herself spoken of as a "person," and the word angered her. This restored her self-possession. She looked up, laughing.

"I don't know how I came to do that, cousin Archibald. I hope you'll forgive me."

"Oh, I'll forgive you. I don't know how you did it, either. Well, man, why are you standing there, grinning like a Cheshire cat. I tell you she has finished. You can take away the things."

"Very well; it is time for your nap, sir."

The worm turned. "What if I don't take one to-day? What will happen?"

"I don't know, sir, except that you will probably be ill. The doctor's orders are, when you have an attack – "

"Hang you and the doctor and the attacks, all together! You can leave the room, can't you? When I want you, I'll ring."

Because he was too astonished to do otherwise, Marshall obeyed. He was a privileged person. His master did not often cross his will. There being no other apparent heirs, Marshall had, in his own imagination, constituted himself Mr. Wingate's heir. Why not? A lifelong service, an untiring devotion to whims of all sorts, a continual attention to the "creature comforts" which were so greatly a part of Archibald's life – these merited a rich reward. Marshall intended to receive this reward, should he be lucky enough to outlive his employer. He felt that he would fill the position of owner of Fairacres with dignity and profit. He did not like this new interest Mr. Wingate was taking, by fits and starts, in the deposed family who were his relatives and – enemies. In Marshall's opinion the breech between these kinsfolk ought not to be healed. Amy's presence in the house was a disastrous portent. She must be gotten out of it as soon as possible, and in such a way that she would not care to come again. But how?

The servant revolved this question, as he carried away the bath, and so profoundly that he failed to notice where he was going and stepped down a forgotten stair so unexpectedly that he fell and drenched himself with the water from the tub.

"Plague on her! Now, I'm in for it!" Which meant that before he could remove the damage to his attire Amy would probably have gained whatever she came to seek. He did not believe that anybody would visit his master without having "an axe to grind," for he judged all men by himself.

However, having tasted the sweets of rebellion against this iron rule of Marshall, Mr. Wingate determined to enjoy it further.

"He's a meddling old fool. He's a good servant, too. There isn't another man in the world would put up with my tempers as he does. Never a word in return, and as smooth as silk."

Amy laughed. "He looks to me as if he had had his hair licked by kittens. It's so slick and flat. Do you have to mind him always?"

"Mind him? I– mind my servant, eh?"

"Oh, I beg your pardon. Of course – "

Mr. Wingate's face was scarlet. The weakness which he had hardly acknowledged to himself had been instantly discovered by this bright-eyed girl. It wasn't a pleasant thing to have so observant a person about. He had something to say to her, however, and he would do it at once and get rid of her. All his newly aroused affection died in his resentment against her judgment.

"I want to go to the studio. There is something there I don't mean to keep, and don't wish to destroy, without consulting some of you."

Amy followed him quietly out of the house toward the building where her father had spent so many hours, and which she held in strictest veneration. Did it not still enclose the "great picture" which even she had never seen, and which had been kept screened from the sight of all?

So she still expected to find the white curtain undisturbed; and as she entered the studio, paused – amazed. The canvas covered the end of the apartment; but after one hasty glance Amy shielded her eyes in a distress that was almost terror.

"Hmm. It is very realistic, isn't it? The thing is horrible. I don't wonder that Cuthbert's wits got scattered, working on it. It would drive me crazy in a week, and I'm a hard, matter-of-fact man. I kept it, because by right I might have kept everything that was here. I supposed I was getting something worth while. But this! I don't want it. I couldn't sell it. I hate to destroy it. What's to be done?"

"Oh, I wish I hadn't seen it!"

"So do I. I see it sometimes in the night and then I can't sleep. I mean I imagine I see it, for I never come here after dark. It's a wonderful picture, sure enough. A horrible one."

The canvas fascinated Amy. It depicted a great fire. It was ugly in extreme. The big, bare building was in flames, everywhere. The windows seemed numberless, and at almost every window a face; on these faces all the gamut of fright, appeal, and unutterable despair. They were human —living. The girl felt impelled to run and snatch them from their doom; also the impulse to hide her eyes, that she might not see.

Mr. Wingate had taken a chair before the painting, and was looking at it critically.

"I tell you that's a marvellous thing, and it's as dreadful as masterly. There's only one way I can see by which a man could get any money out of it: that's by cutting out the separate faces and selling them singly. A body might endure to see one such countenance in his collection, but not more; or, it might be destroyed altogether. It explains why Cuthbert never recovered from the shock of the accident he was in. He never lost sight of it. He must have begun this while it was fresh in his brain, and he did his utmost to keep it fresh. Poor Salome, she had a hard life."

"She had a happy life. She loved my father. He loved her. Whatever he did was right, just right in her eyes. You needn't pity her. But, oh, if she were only here to consult! Why did you show it to me? Why did I have to see it?"

"Because it couldn't be helped. The thing is; it exists. Now what is to be done with it?"

"I – will ask my father."

"I don't know that that is wise. It might bring about a return of his malady, and I'm told he is improving in all respects."

"I must do it; it is his. There is no other way."

"What if it makes him worse again?"

Poor Amy! All her Christmas cheer had died from her heart. She felt that it would be almost wicked to remind her father of this, his "life work," of which she had not heard him speak since he left Fairacres. Yet it was his. He had given years to its completion, so far as it had neared that point.

Mr. Wingate regarded her keenly. "Well?" he asked.

"Oh, I don't know what to say. Have you nothing to propose?"

"Only what I did. To cut it up and sell the faces as so many small canvases. That would partially repay me for the things he still owes for – the paints and so on. But I detest the thing so I hate to spread the misery of it."

"Repay you? Do you mean that you believe you have a right – you own that picture?"

"Certainly."

"Why, it is the labor of – it means many years out of my poor father's life. Can such a thing be 'owned' by anybody except him?"

"Yes, of course. Hark you. You go home and tell him what I offer. I will take the picture off his hands and allow him – hmm – maybe two hundred dollars; or, he can take it and owe me that much more. In any case I want to get rid of it. I won't have it left here much longer. I shall have other uses for this room, maybe. Anyway, I mean to get that off the place."

Amy moved slowly toward the door. She did not know how to reply, and she felt her cousin was a very hard, unjust man. Yet she agreed with him that the picture was enough to make a person wish it out of sight, even out of existence.

At the doorway he arrested her steps, by laying his hand upon her shoulder.

"Help me down; I'm afraid of stairs. And there's another thing – that donkey."

"Oh, yes; I had forgotten Balaam. May I ride him home? Will you have him brought around for me?"

"Eh? What? Not so fast – not quite so fast! No, I don't mean the stairs. I can manage this pace for them. I mean the donkey. It came here of its own accord. It gave me an idea. If your brother wants to sell him – By the way, how do you expect to pay the rent?"

Amy stopped short, halfway down the stairs, and so suddenly that Mr. Wingate remonstrated.

"If you'd give warning of these spasmodic actions of yours, it would be more comfortable for those depending on you. There, please move along."

"The rent? I had not thought. Didn't my mother attend to that?"

"For the first quarter year, she did. To whom must I look now?"

Unmindful, since this new distressing question had been raised, how much she inconvenienced him, Amy sat plump down and leaned her head against the hand-rail.

It always appeared to aid her reflective powers if she could rest her troubled head against something material.

"I'll try to think. I earn two dollars and a half a week."

"Oh, my foot hurts again. Let's get into a decent room and talk it over there. I hate draughty halls and unwarmed rooms. There's a fire in the little side parlor off the dining room. That's my own private den. I want to get there and lie down. That rabbit pie I had for lunch doesn't agree with me, I'm afraid. Do you like rabbit pie?"

"No, indeed; I wouldn't eat one for anything."

"Why not?"

"I should fancy the pretty creatures looking at me with their soft eyes. They're the gentlest animals in the world."

"The most destructive, you mean."

She did not contest. Besides, she was now in great haste to leave Fairacres and regain the shelter of her own home. Strange, she reflected, how quickly she had ceased to think of this house, her birthplace, as a home; since all that went to make it such had gone elsewhere.

"About that rent money. If Hallam is able to keep at work we may together earn five dollars a week. That would be twenty dollars a month. The rent is ten. We will be able to pay it, I think."