ion; she felt as if she must scream in another minute of
existence in this dreary, dirty house, with the glaring sunshine
streaming in the kitchen window and a high summer wind howling outside.

The talk was ended by a ring at the door, and Julia went through the
dark, stifling passage to admit a lean, pale young man, with a rough
growth of light hair on his sunken cheeks, and a curious look of not
belonging to his clothes.

"It's Uncle Chess, Grandma," said she, leading the way back to the
kitchen. Mrs. Cox gave her youngest child a kiss, assuring him that she
never would have known him, he looked like a ghost, she said, and
Chester sat down and talked a little awkwardly to his mother and nieces.
His voice was husky, full of apologetic cadences; he explained
painstakingly the chance that had brought him home twenty-four hours
early, as if it were the most important thing in the world. Julia,
helping her grandmother with preparations for dinner, did not know why
she found Chester's presence unendurably trying; she did not know that
it was pity that wrung her heart; she only wished he were not there.

An hour's talk cheered the newcomer amazingly, as perhaps did also the
dinner odours of frying potatoes and bacon. He was venturing upon a
history of his wrongs when a damper fell upon the little company with
the arrival of the man of the house. Her husband's return brought back
in a flood to old Mrs. Cox's heart the memory of his outrageous
negotiations regarding the house; the three girls all cordially detested
the old man and were silent and ungracious in his presence, and Chester
flushed deeply as his father came in, and became dumb.

Old Cox made no immediate acknowledgement of the newcomer's arrival, but
grunted as he jerked a chair to the table, indicating his readiness for
dinner, and dinner was served with all speed. It was only when he had
drunk off half a cup of scalding strong tea that the man of the house
turned to his last born and said:

"So, you're out again?"

"I should never have been in!" Chester said, eagerly and huskily.

"Yes, I've heard lots of that kind of talk," the old man assured him.
"'Cording to what you hear there's a good many up there that never done
nothing at all!"

Julia saw the son shrink, and a look of infinite wistfulness for a
moment darkened his eyes. He was a stupid-looking, gentle-faced fellow,
pitiable as a sick child.

"Perhaps you'll read these, Pa," he said, fumbling i