rian musician seemed rather to enjoy it, as
giving him something definite to overcome vocally, and roared forth his
determination to "gather at the river" from the porch, where he sat with
his splint-bottomed chair tipped back, and his eyes closed in a seeming
ecstasy of religious fervor.

Old Withrow sat on the step, with his chin in his hands, smoking, and
two dove-colored hounds stood, in mantel-ornament attitude, before him,
looking up with that vaguely expectant air which even a long life of
disappointment fails to erase from the canine countenance. Five or six
half-clad chickens, huddling together in the first strangeness of
maternal desertion, were drinking from an Indian mortar under the
hydrant, and mother Withrow, coming to the door to empty her dish-pan,
stood a moment looking at them.

"That there hydrant's quit drippin' again," she said gruffly, turning
toward the old man. "Them young ones turned it on to get a drink, and
then turned it clear off. 'Pears to me they drink most o' the time. I'd
think they come by it honestly, if 't wuzn't water. If you ain't too
tired holdin' your head up with both hands, s'posin' you stir your
stumps and turn it on a drop fer them chickens."

The old man got up with confused, vinous alacrity and started toward the
hydrant.

"There's no need o' savin' water on this ranch," he blustered feebly, "I
kin tell you that. You'd ought to go up to the spring and see what a
good trade you made. I'm a-goin' myself by 'n' by. I knowed"--

He broke off abruptly, as the old woman threw the dish-water dangerously
near him.

"If water's so plenty, some folks had ought to soak their heads," she
retorted, disappearing through the door.

The old man regulated the hydrant somewhat unsteadily, and returned to a
seat on the porch. Lysander's musical efforts had subsided to a not very
exultant hum at the first mention of the water supply. Evidently his
reflections on that subject were not conducive to religious enthusiasm.
Old Withrow assumed a confidential attitude and touched his son-in-law
on the knee.

"She's always so full of her prejudisms," he said, pointing toward the
kitchen door with his thumb. "Now 'f she'd go 'long o' me up to the
spring and see what a tremenjus flow o' water there is, she'd be pleased
as Punch. Now wouldn't she?"

Lysander brought his chair to the floor with a bang that made the loose
boards of the porch rattle.

"Come 'round the house, pap," he said anxio