I'll take the farm and make it pay."

"I don't see what you want to go steppin' in yo' pa's shoes for," put in
Marthy Burr. "When toes have got p'inted down-hill they ain't goin' no
other way. Don't you come back to raisin' things on this land. I ain't
never seen nothin' thrive on it yet, cep'n weeds, an' the Lord knows
they warn't planted."

Nicholas shook his head.

"Why, look at Turner," he said. "His land is as poor as this, and he
makes an easy living."

"A Turner ain't a Burr," returned his stepmother with uncompromising
logic, "an' a Burr ain't a Turner. Whar the blood runs the man follows,
an' yours ain't runnin' towards the farm. Jeb Turner can fling a handful
of corn in poor groun', an' thar'll come up a cornfield, an' yo' pa may
plant with the sweat of his brow an' the groanin' of his spirit, an' the
crows git it. A farmer's got to be born, same as a fool. You can't make
a corn pone out of flour dough by the twistin' of it."

"That's so," admitted Amos Burr, laying down his knife and meeting his
wife's eyes. "That's so. You can't make a corn pone out of flour dough,
noways you turn it."

"Perhaps I'll try some day," said Nicholas with a laugh; and he rose and
went out of the house.

When he had reached the little gate he heard a voice behind him, and
turned to find his half-sister Nannie, her cheeks flushed like a damp,
wild rose above her faded dress.

"I want you to bring me something from the store, Nick," she stammered.
"I want a blue ribbon for my hair, it's--it's so worrisome."

She shook her auburn locks, and Nicholas realised suddenly that she must
be very good to look at--to men who were only in a Scriptural sense her
brothers. He felt a vague pride in her.

"Why, of course I will," he answered. "Blue let it be."

And he opened the gate and went on his way, leaving Nannie, still
flushed, in the path.

When he took down Jerry Pollard's shutters a half-hour later he stood
for an instant looking thoughtfully down upon the assortment in the
window. Then he leaned over and conscientiously set upright a blue-glass
vase before going behind the counter to unpin the curtains hanging
across the dry-goods shelves.

After breakfast Bessie Pollard came in and stood with her elbow resting
on the showcase as she flirted a small feather duster. She had just
released her hair from curl paper, and it hung in golden ringlets over
her forehead. Her face was ripe and red, like a well-sunned peach, and
th