e's only one
thing puzzles me. I see it's his silence, the waiting, which makes Polly
wake up and screech at night. But I dunno myself--has Jesse lost his
nerve?"

"How do you know all this?"

"She told mother everything."

"And your mother told you. Why?"

"Because--say, mum, you remember the thing your husband called Bull
Durham?"

"Brooke."

"Fancy Brooke, the thing which Polly kept like a pet lap-dog. The thing
which turned state's evidence to hang my poor old dad. Brooke's come to
Spite House as Polly's manager. Yes, now you know why mother's got no
more use for Polly--told me I'd best come to you and give you warning.
That thing is at Spite House, and mother's gone."

"I see it all now. But one last question. How did you get to England?"

"Do you remember, mum, that my poor dad just thought the world of
Jesse?"

"I remember, a legacy for you,--some ponies."

"Well, Jesse found out somehow that I was at Spite House. He sent me the
value of them ponies, with only a receipt for me to sign. I reckon, mum,
that ruined and well-nigh starving, he rode a hundred and sixty miles
through the black pines, because he's honest. That's why I spent the
money comin' to you. I wants to help."

CHAPTER II

THE IMPATIENT CHAPTER

_Kate's Narrative_

This chapter is so difficult to start. It deals with a time when life
had become impossible unless one could jump from here to Wednesday next,
and thence to Monday fortnight. Of course the book is only meant for
Jesse, for David, for me, and for those to come who may revere us as
their ancestors. Thank goodness, I am not a novelist! Think of the fate
of the professional writer whose hosts of "characters," the bodiless
papery creatures of his brain, will rise up in judgment to accuse their
petty creator, to gibber at him, to make his dreams a nightmare. What
novelist would escape that condemnation? Dickens might be saved, perhaps
Balzac. Tourguenieff maybe, even Kipling, but in Heaven the writers will
not be overcrowded.

My characters are ready to hand, and my events are real, but how can I
possibly weld the notes in waiting, to make an harmonious, sane,
restful chapter, whose very motif is worry? I give it up, for what am I
that I should do this thing?

To three-fourths' pound of artistic temperament, add one cup Celtic
blood; stir in a tablespoon of best Italian melody, add humor and
laziness to taste; then fry in moonlight over a slow anthem, and there