rst of June Rawling posted signs at the edge of his valley and
at the railroad stations nearest, saying that he needed no more labor.
The tide of applicants ceased, but Mrs. Rawling was nervous. Pete
declared his intention of running away, and riding home in the late
afternoon, Margot was stopped by a drunken, babbling man, who seized her
pony's bridle, with unknown words. She galloped free, but next day
Rawling sent his wife and children to the seaside and sat waiting
Sanford's coming to cheer his desolate house, the new revolver cold on
his groin.

Sanford came home a day earlier than he had planned, and drove in a
borrowed cart from the station, furious when an old cottage blazed in
the rainy night, just below the white posts marking his heritage, and
shrill women screamed invitation at the horse's hoof-beats. He felt the
valley smirched, and his father's worn face angered him when they met.

"I almost wish you'd not come, Sonny. We're in rotten shape for a hard
summer. Go to bed, dear, and get warm."

"Got a six-shooter for me?"

"You? Who'd touch you? Some one would kill him. I let Bill have a gun,
and some other steady heads. You must keep your temper. You always have.
Ling Varian got into a splendid row with some hog who called Uncle
Jim--the usual name. Ling did him up. Ah, here's Onnie. Onnie, here's--"

The cook rushed down the stairs, a fearful and notable bed-gown covering
her night-dress, and the rattles chattering loudly.

"God's kind to us. See the chest of him! Master San! Master San!"

"Good Lord, Onnie. I wasn't dead, you know! Don't _kill_ a fellow!"

For the first time her embrace was an embarrassment; her mouth on his
cheek made him flush. She loved him so desperately, this poor stupid
woman, and he could only be fond of her, give her a sort of tolerant
affection. Honesty reddened his face.

"Come on and find me a hard-boiled egg, there's a--"

"A hard-boiled egg? Listen to that, your Honor! An' it's near the
middle of the night! No, I'll not be findin' hard-boiled eggs for
you--oh, he's laughin' at me! Now you come into the dinin'-room, an'
I'll be hottin' some milk for you, for you're wet as any drowned little
cat. An' the mare's fine, an' I've the fishin'-sticks all dusted, an'
your new bathin'-tub's to your bath-room, though ill fate follow that
English pig Percival that put it in, for he dug holes with his heels!
An' would you be wantin' a roast-beef sandwidge?"

"She's nearly wild,