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The man’s head fell, and it was a long time before he asked his next question.

"How is she, anyhow?"

"Purty well," piped the boy with a prolongation of the last words into a kind of chirp. "She’th been thick, though," he added.

"Been sick? How long?"

"Oh, a long time. But she ain’t thick abed; she’th awuul poor, though. Gran’pa thayth she’th poor ath a rake. "

"Oh, he does, eh?"

"Yeth, thir. Uncle Ed he jawth her, then she crieth. "

Will’s anger and remorse broke out in a groaning curse. "O my God! I see it all. That great lunkin’ houn’ has made life a hell fer her. " Then that letter came back to his mind; he had never been able to put it out of his mind–he never would till he saw her and asked her pardon.

"Here, my boy, I want you to tell me some more. Where does your Aunt Agnes live?"

"At gran’pa’th. You know where my gran’pa livth?"

"Well, you do. Now I want you to take this letter to her. Give it to her. " He wrote a little note and folded it. "Now dust out o’ here. "

The boy slipped away through the trees like a rabbit; his little brown feet hardly rustled. He was like some little wood animal. Left alone, the man went back into a reverie that lasted till the shadows fell on the thick little grove around the spring. He rose at last and, taking his stick in hand, walked out to the wood again and stood there, gazing at the sky. He seemed loath to go farther. The sky was full of flame-colored clouds floating in a yellow-green sea, where bars of faint pink streamed broadly away.

As he stood there, feeling the wind lift his hair, listening to the crickets’ ever-present crying, and facing the majesty of space, a strange sadness and despair came into his eyes.

Drawing a quick breath, he leaped the fence and was about going on up the road, when he heard, at a little distance, the sound of a drove of cattle approaching, and he stood aside to allow them to pass. They snuffed and shied at the silent figure by the fence, and hurried by with snapping heels–a peculiar sound that made the man smile with pleasure.

An old man was driving the cows, crying out:

"St, boy, there! Go on, there. Whay, boss!"

Will knew that hard-featured, wiry old man, now entering his second childhood and beginning to limp painfully. He had his hands full of hard clods which he threw impatiently at the lumbering animals.

"Good evening, uncle!"

"I ain’t y’r uncle, young man. "

His dim eyes did not recognize the boy he had chased out of his plum patch years before.

"I don’t know yeh, neither. "

"Oh, you will, later on. I’m from the East. I’m a sort of a relative to John Hannan. "

"I wanto know if y’ be!" the old man exclaimed, peering closer.

"Yes. I’m just up from Rock River. John’s harvesting, I s’pose?"

"Where’s the youngest one–Will?"

"William? Oh! he’s a bad aig–he lit out fr the West somewhere. He was a hard boy. He stole a hatful o’ my plums once. He left home kind o’ sudden. He! he! I s’pose he was purty well cut up jest about them days. "

"How’s that?"

The old man chuckled.

"Well, y’ see, they was both courtin’ Agnes then, an’ my son cut William out. Then William he lit out f’r the West, Arizony ‘r California ‘r somewhere out West. Never been back sence. "

"Ain’t, heh?"

"No. But they say he’s makin’ a terrible lot o’ money," the old man said in a hushed voice. "But the way he makes it is awful scaly. I tell my wife if I had a son like that an’ he’d send me home a bushel basket o’ money, earnt like that, I wouldn’t touch finger to it–no, sir!"

"You wouldn’t? Why?"

"’Cause it ain’t right. It ain’t made right no way, you–"

"But how is it made? What’s the feller’s trade?"

"He’s a gambler–that’s his trade! He plays cards, and every cent is bloody. I wouldn’t touch such money no how you could fix it–"

"Wouldn’t, hay?" The young man straightened up. "Well, look-a-here, old man: did you ever hear of a man foreclosing a mortgage on a widow and two boys, getting a farm f’r one quarter what it was really worth? You damned old hypocrite! I know all about you and your whole tribe–you old bloodsucker!"