good time, and that's
more than anybody else does."

"Carlia!"

"Well, that's the truth." She arose, walked to the table in the middle
of the room and stood challengingly before him. "Who are you to find
fault? What have you done to--"

"I'll admit I've done very little; but you, yourself."

"Never mind me. What do you care for me? What does anybody care?"

"Your mother, at least."

"Yes, mother; poor, dear mother.... Oh, my God, I can't stand it, I
can't stand it!" With a sob she broke and sank down by the table, hiding
her face in her arms. Dorian arose to go to her. The door opened, and
the mother appeared.

"What is it, Carlia," she asked in alarm.

The girl raised her head, swiftly dashed the tears from her eyes, then
with a sad effort to smile, said:

"Nothing, mother, nothing at all. I'm going to bed. Where's father?"

"He was called out to Uncle Zed's who is sick. Dorian's mother is there
with him too, I understand."

"Then I'd better go for her," said the young man. "I'll say goodnight.
Poor Uncle Zed; he hasn't been well lately. Goodnight Sister Duke,
goodnight Carlia."

Carlia stood in the doorway leading to the stairs. "Goodnight, Dorian,"
she said. "Forgive me for being so rude."

He stepped toward her, but she motioned him back, and than ran up the
carpetless stairs to her room. Dorian went out in the night. With a
heavy heart he hurried down the road in the direction of Uncle Zed's
home.

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

Uncle Zed's illness did not prove fatal, though it was serious enough.
In a few days he was up and about again, slowly, quietly providing for
his simple needs. However, it was plainly evident that he had nearly
come to the end of his earthly pilgrimage.

After the most pressing fall work had been disposed of, Dorian spent as
much of his spare time as possible with the old man, who seemed to like
the company of the younger man better than anyone else in the village;
and Dorian, for his part, took delight in visiting with him, in helping
him with the heaviest of his not heavy chores. Especially, was it
pleasant during the lengthening evening with a small fire and the lamp
newly trimmed. Uncle Zed reclined in his easy chair, while Dorian sat by
the table with books and papers. Their conversations ranged from flower
gardens to dry-farms, and from agnosticism to the highest degrees of the
celestial glory. And how they both reveled in books and their
contents on the occasions when