e cussing might ease your liver," Laura
declared, surprised and amused at her brother's unexpected vehemence of
feeling.

"There's nothing in the English language, as she is cussed, to do the
subject justice, but I might practise a few minutes at least," York
began.

"Hush, York! That is Mr. Eugene Wellington coming yonder. I'll call
Jerry. Poor Joe!" Laura added, pityingly. "I have a feeling he is the
real sufferer here."

"Yes, poor Joe!" York echoed, sadly. "Ponk will just soar above his
hurt, but men of Joe's dogged make-up die a thousand deaths when they do
die."

Lesa Swaim's daughter was gloriously beautiful to Eugene Wellington's
artistic eyes as he sat beside her on the porch on this beautiful
evening. And Eugene himself held a charm in his very presence. All the
memories of the young years of culture and ease; all the daintiness of
perfect dress and perfect manners; all the assurance that a vague, sweet
dream was becoming real; all the sense of a struggle for a livelihood
now ended; all the breaking of the grip of stern duty, and an unbending
pride in a clear conscience, although their rewards had been inspiringly
sweet--all these seemed to Jerry Swaim to lift her suddenly and
completely into the real life from which these three busy, strange years
had taken her. Oh, she had been only waiting, after all. Nothing
mattered any more. Eugene and she had looked at duty differently. That
was all. He was here now, here for her sake. Henceforth his people were
to be her people--his God her God. Uncle Cornie was wise when he said of
Eugene: "He comes nearer to what you've been dreaming about." He seemed
not so much a lover as a fulfilment of a craving for love.

The first sweet moment of meeting was over. Her future, their future,
shrouded only by a rose-hued mist, beyond which lay light and ease, was
waiting now for them to enter upon. In this idyllic hour Geraldine,
daughter of Lesa Swaim, had come to the very zenith of life's romance.

"It has been a cruel three years, Jerry," Eugene was saying, as, their
first greetings over, he lighted a cigarette and adjusted himself
picturesquely and easefully in York Macpherson's big porch chair--a
handsome, perfectly groomed, artistic fellow, he appeared fitted as
never before to adorn life's ornamental places.

"But they are past now. You won't have to teach any more, little cousin
o' mine. York Macpherson says your land lease expires to-day. So your
business transac