olled her front hair under her fingers. At length
she said: "Well--I ain't sorry you've broke off with Ross. I've been
noticing the Whitneys and their goings on for some time. I saw they'd got
clean out of _my_ class, and--I'm glad my daughter hasn't. There's a
common streak in those Whitneys. I never did like Ross, though I never
would have said anything, as you seemed to want him, and your father had
always been set on it, and thought so high of him. He laid himself out to
make your pa think he was a fine character and full of business--and I
ain't denying that he's smart, mighty smart--too smart to suit me." A
long reflective pause, then: "But--Dory--Well, my advice is to think it
over before you jump clear in. Of course, you'll have enough for both,
but I'd rather see you taking up with some man that's got a good
business. Teachin' 's worse than preachin' as a business. Still, there's
plenty of time to think about that. You're only engaged."

"Teachin' 's worse than preachin'"--Adelaide's new, or, rather, revived
democracy was an aspiration rather than an actuality, was--as to the part
above the soil, at least--a not very vigorous looking forced growth
through sordid necessity. In this respect it was like many, perhaps most,
human aspirations--and, like them, it was far more likely to wither than
to flourish. "Teachin' 's worse than preachin'"--Del began to slip
dismally down from the height to which Arthur's tactless outburst had
blown her. Down, and down, and down, like a punctured balloon--gently,
but steadily, dishearteningly. She was ashamed of herself, as ashamed as
any reader of these chronicles is for her--any reader with one standard
for judging other people and another for judging himself. To the credit
of her character must be set down her shame at her snobbishness. The
snobbishness itself should not be set down to her discredit, but should
be charged up to that class feeling, as old as property, and fostered
and developed by almost every familiar fact in our daily environment.

"I shouldn't be surprised but your father'd be glad, if he knew," her
mother was saying. "But it's no use to risk telling him. A shock
might--might make him worse." She started up. "I must go to him. I
came to send you, while I was looking after Mary and the dinner, and I
clean forgot."

She hurried away. Adelaide sat thinking, more and more forlorn, though
not a whit less determined. "I ought to admire him more than I did Ross,