a ragged shirt-cuff down from under his coat-sleeve, shook it in
his son's eyes--poverty. He went to one of the rotting doors and
jerking it open without turning the knob, rattled it on its loose
hinges--poverty. He turned to the window, and with one gesture
depicted ruined outhouses and ruined barn, now hidden under the
snow, and beautiful in the Sunday evening light--poverty. He turned
and faced his son, majestic in mingled grief and care.

"Kind! just! you who have trifled with your advantages, you who are
sending your mother out of her home--"

David sprang toward him in an agony of trouble and remorse.

"It is not true, it is not necessary! Father, you have been too
much influenced by my mother's fears. This is Bailey's doing. It is
about this I have wanted to talk to you. I shall see Bailey to-
morrow."

"I forbid you to see him or to interfere."

"I must see him, whether you wish it or not," and David, to save
other hard words that were coming, turned quickly and left the
room.

He did not go down to supper. Toward bedtime, as he sat before his
fire, he heard a slow, unfamiliar step mounting the stair. Not
often in a year did he have the chance to recognize that step. His
mother entered, holding a small iron stewpan, from under the cover
of which steamed a sweet, spicy odor.