"I'll be careful," promised Waitstill, sobbing quietly; "I'll do
my best."

"You've got more courage than ever I had; don't you s'pose you
can stiffen up and defend yourself a little mite? . . . Your
father'd ought to be opposed, for his own good . . . but I've
never seen anybody that dared do it." Then, after a pause, she
said with a flash of spirit,--"Anyhow, Waitstill, he's your
father after all. He's no blood relation of mine, and I can't
stand him another day; that's the reason I'm willing to die."



IV

SOMETHING OF A HERO

IVORY BOYNTON lifted the bars that divided his land from the
highroad and walked slowly toward the house. It was April, but
there were still patches of snow here and there, fast melting
under a drizzling rain. It was a gray world, a bleak,
black-and-brown world, above and below. The sky was leaden; the
road and the footpath were deep in a muddy ooze flecked with
white. The tree-trunks, black, with bare branches, were lined
against the gray sky; nevertheless, spring had been on the way
for a week, and a few sunny days would bring the yearly miracle
for which all hearts were longing.

Ivory was season-wise and his quick eye had caught many a sign as
he walked through the woods from his schoolhouse. A new and