hills and from Edith's little brood.
Roger had feared trouble there, for he knew how Edith disapproved of her
sister's new ideas. But although much with the children, Deborah apparently
had no new ideas at all. She seemed to be only listening. One balmy day at
sunset, Roger saw her lying on the grass with George sprawled by her side.
Her head upon one arm, she appeared to be watching the cattle in the
sloping pasture above. Slowly, as though each one of them was drawn by
mysterious unseen chains, they were drifting down toward the barn where it
was almost milking time. George was talking earnestly. She threw a glance
at him from time to time, and Roger could see how intent were her eyes.
Yes, Deborah knew how to study a boy.

Only once during the summer did she talk about her work. On a walk with her
father one day she took him into a small forlorn building, a mere cabin of
one room. The white paint had long been worn away, the windows were all
broken, half the old shingles had dropped from the roof and on the
flagpole was no flag. It was the district schoolhouse where for nearly half
his life Deborah's grandfather had taught a score of pupils. Inside were a
blackboard, a rusty stove, a teacher's desk and a dozen forms, grown mouldy
and worm-eaten now. A torn and faded picture of Lincoln was upon one wall,
half hidden by a spider's web and by a few old dangling rags which once had
been red, white and blue. Below, still clinging to the wall, was an old
scrap of paper, on which in a large rugged hand there had been written long
ago a speech, but it had been worn away until but three words were
legible--"conceived and dedicated--"

"Tell me about your school," she said. "All you can remember." Seated at
her grandfather's desk she asked Roger many questions. And his
recollections, at first dim and hazy, began to clear a little.

"By George!" he exclaimed. "Here are my initials!"

He stooped over one of the benches.

"Oh, dearie! Where?" He pointed them out, and then while he sat on the rude
old bench for some time more she questioned him.

"But your school was not all here," she said musingly at last, "it was up
on the farm, besides, where you learned to plough and sow and reap and take
care of the animals in the barn, and mend things that were broken, and--oh,
turn your hand to anything. But millions of children nowadays are growing
up in cities, you see."

Half frowning and half smiling she began to talk of her wor