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“What did you want to shoot at that thing fer?” asked Idy. “They ain’t fit to eat.”

“The wings is pretty. I thought you might like another feather in your cap.”

The girl gave him a look of radiant contempt, and he spoke again hurriedly, anxious to prevent a relapse in the conversation.

“You was sayin’ somethin’ to-day about signin’ the pledge, Idy: I’ve been layin’ off to sign the pledge this good while. The next time there’s a meetin’ of the W. X. Y. Z. women, you fetch on one o’ their pledges, an’ I’ll put my fist to it.”

“W. C. T. U.,” corrected Idy, with emphasis.

“All right; W. C. T. me, if that suits you any better. It’s a long time since I learned my letters, an’ I get ’em mixed. But I’ve made up my mind on the teetotal business, and don’t ye forget it.”

“There ain’t any danger of me forgettin’ it,” said the young woman significantly. “What ye goin’ to do about that other business?” she added, turning her wide eyes upon him abruptly–“about gettin’ even with that cheatin’ Barden?”

They had driven into the purple shadow of the mountains, and Parker seemed to have left his enthusiasm behind him with the sunlight.

“I don’t know,” he said gloomily. “Do ye want me to kill ‘im?”

” Kill him!” sneered the girl; “I want ye to get even with ‘im ! ‘Tain’t no great trick to kill a man; any fool can do that. I want ye to get ahead of ‘im!”

She glowed upon him in angry magnificence.

“Idy,” said her lover, sidling toward her tenderly, “when you flare up that a-way, you mustn’t expect me to think about Barden. You look just pretty ‘nough to eat!”

V.

A week later Eben began grubbing out the vineyard. The weather turned suddenly warm, and the harvest was coming on rapidly. Parker Lowe had gone to Temecula with Mose Doolittle, who was about to purchase a machine, presumably feminine, which they both referred to familiarly as “she,” and styled more formally “a second-hand steam-thrasher.” It was Monday, and Idy was putting the week’s washing through the wringer with a loud vocal accompaniment of gospel hymn.

Eben had worked steadily since sunrise. The vines were young, and the ground was not heavy, but the day was warm, and he wielded the mattock rapidly, stooping now and then to jerk out a refractory root with his hands. An hour before noon his daughter saw him coming through the apricot orchard, walking wearily, with his soiled handkerchief pressed to his lips. The girl’s voice lost its song abruptly, and then broke out again in a low, faltering wail. She bounded across the warm plowed ground to his side.

“Pappy! O pappy!” she cried, breathing wildly, “what is it? Tell me, can’t you, pappy?”

The little man smiled at her with his patient eyes, and shook his head. She put her hand under his elbow, and walked beside him, her arm across his shoulders, her tortured young face close to his. When they reached the kitchen door he sank down on the edge of the platform, resting his head on his hand. The girl took off his weather-beaten hat, and smoothed the wet hair from his forehead.

“O pappy! Poor, little, sweet old pappy!” she moaned, rubbing her cheek caressingly on his bowed head.

Eben took the handkerchief from his lips, and she started back, crying out piteously as she saw it stained with blood. He looked up at her, a gentle, tremulous smile twitching his beard.

“Don’t–tell–your–maw,” he said, putting out his hand feebly.

The words seemed to recall her. She went hurriedly into the house and close to the lounge where her mother was lying.

“Maw,” she said quickly, “you must get up! Pappy’s got a hem’ridge. I want you to help me to get ‘im to bed, an’ then I’m goin’ fer a doctor.”

The woman got up, and followed her daughter eagerly.