have told the reason. She opened her window at the back of the
house and leaned out. The evening was mild with a soft wind
blowing. She could hear the full brook dashing through the edge
of the wood-lot, and even the "ker-chug" of an occasional
bull-frog. There were great misty stars in the sky, but no moon.

There was no light in Aunt Abby Cole's kitchen, but a faint
glimmer shone through the windows of Uncle Bart's joiner's shop,
showing that the old man was either having an hour of peaceful
contemplation with no companion but his pipe, or that there might
be a little group of privileged visitors, headed by Jed Morrill,
busily discussing the affairs of the nation.

Waitstill felt troubled and anxious to-night; bruised by the
little daily torments that lessened her courage but never wholly
destroyed it. Any one who believed implicitly in heredity might
have been puzzled, perhaps, to account for her. He might
fantastically picture her as making herself out of her ancestors,
using a free hand, picking and choosing what she liked best, with
due care for the effect of combinations; selecting here and there
and modifying, if advisable, a trait of Grandpa or Grandma
Foxwell, of Great-Uncle or Great-Aunt Baxter; borrowing qualities
lavishly from her own gently born and gently bred mother, and
carefully avoiding her respected father's Stock, except, perhaps,
to take a dash of his pluck and an ounce of his persistence. Jed
Morrill remarked of Deacon Baxter once: "When Old Foxy wants
anything he'11 wait till hell freezes over afore he'll give up."
Waitstill had her father's firm chin, but there the likeness
ended. The proud curve of her nostrils, the clear well-opened eye
with its deep fringe of lashes, the earnest mouth, all these came