remembers his disappointment and failure, but if he is alive he
is a traitor."

There was a long pause and they could see in the distance
Humphrey Barker with his clarionet and Pliny Waterhouse with his
bass viol driving up to the churchyard fence to hitch their
horses. The sun was dipping low and red behind the Town-House
Hill on the other side of the river.

"What makes my father dislike the very mention of yours?" asked
Waitstill. "I know what they say: that it is because the two men
had high words once in a Cochrane meeting, when father tried to
interfere with some of the exercises and was put out of doors. It
doesn't seem as if that grievance, seventeen or eighteen years
ago, would influence his opinion of your mother, or of you."

"It isn't likely that a man of your father's sort would forget or
forgive what he considered an injury; and in refusing to have
anything to do with the son of a disgraced man and a deranged
woman, he is well within his rights."

Ivory's cheeks burned red under the tan, and his hand trembled a
little as he plucked bits of clover from the grass and pulled
them to pieces absent-mindedly. "How are you getting on at home
these days, Waitstill?" he asked, as if to turn his own mind and
hers from a too painful subject.

"You have troubles enough of your own without hearing mine,
Ivory, and anyway they are not big afflictions, heavy sorrows,
like those you have to bear. Mine are just petty, nagging,