steerage rate, knew all about Raften's father, and always wound up
any discussion by hurling in Raften's teeth: "Don't talk to me, ye
upstart. Everybody knows ye are nothing but a Emmy Grant." This was
the one fly in the Raften ointment. No use denying it. His father
had accepted a free passage, true, and Boyle had received a free
homestead, but what of that--that counted for nothing. Old Boyle had
been a "PASSENGER," old Raften an "EMMY GRANT."

This was the new community that Yan had entered, and the words Dogan
and Prattison, "green" and "orange and blue," began to loom large,
along with the ideas and animosities they stood for.

The accent of the Sangerite was mixed. First, there was a rich Irish
brogue with many Irish words; this belonged chiefly to the old folks.
The Irish of such men as Raften was quite evident in their speech, but
not strong enough to warrant the accepted Irish spelling of books,
except when the speaker was greatly excited. The young generation
had almost no Irish accent, but all had sifted down to the peculiar
burring nasal whine of the backwoods Canadian.

Mr. and Mrs. Raften met Yan at the station. They had supper together
at the tavern and drove him to their home, where they showed him into
the big dining-room--living-room--kitchen. Over behind the stove was
a tall, awkward boy with carroty hair and small, dark eyes set much
aslant in the saddest of faces. Mrs. Raften said, "Come, Sam, and
shake hands with Yan." Sam came sheepishly forward, shook hands in a
flabby way, and said, in drawling tones, "How-do," then retired behind
the stove to gaze with melancholy soberness at Yan, whenever he could
do so without being caught at it. Mr. and Mrs. Raften were attending
to various matters elsewhere, and Yan was left alone and miserable.