er, and water was so scarce and all that. And
then, you know, I didn't get married again till you was 'most ten years
old, Jason. I'm sure I don't know what to do. I don't want to mortify
anybody, but I'd like to know just what's my dooty."

"Well, I can tell you easy enough." The man's voice was getting beyond
control, but he drew it in with a quick, angry breath. "Just drop the
whole thing. If he's got on for forty years, mother, I guess he can
manage for the rest of the time."

"But it ain't so easy managin' when you begin to get old, Jason. I know
how that is."

Her son jerked the lines impatiently, and the colt gave a nervous start.

"I suppose you know this farm really came to you from your paw, don't
you, Jason?" she asked humbly.

"Don't know as I did," answered the man, without enthusiasm.

"Well, you see, after we was married, your grandfather Weaver offered
your paw this quarter-section if he'd stay here in Ioway; but he had his
heart set on going to Californay, and didn't want it; so after it
turned out the way it did, and you was born, your grandfather gave me
this farm, and I done very well with it. That's the reason your step-paw
insisted on you having it when we was dividing things up before he
died."

"Seems to me father worked pretty hard on this place himself."

The man said the word "father" half defiantly.

"Mr. Moxom? Oh, yes, he was a first-rate manager, and the kindest man
that ever drew breath. I remember when your sister Angie was born--oh,
dear me!"--the old woman felt her voice giving way, and stopped an
instant,--"it seems so kind of strange. Well, I guess we'd better just
drop it, Jason. I must go back to the house. Emma didn't like my coming
for lettuce. She'll think I've planted some, and am waitin' for it to
come up."

She gave her son a quivering smile as she turned away. He stood still
and watched her until she had crossed the plowed ground. It seemed to
him she walked more feebly than when she came out.

"That's awful queer," he said, shaking his head, "calling her own
daughters 'the Moxom girls.'"

III

Ethel Weaver had been to Ashland for the mail, and was driving home in
the summer dusk. A dash of rain had fallen while she was in the village,
and the air was full of the odor of moist earth and the sweetness of
growing corn. The colt she was driving held his head high, glancing from
side to side with youthful eagerness for a sensation, and shying at
nothing now an