ne April day, when they
were out in the yard together, he leaning on his cane and she sweeping
the grass, she spoke involuntarily:--

"I can't hardly believe it."

"What?" he asked.

"Folks said"--she hesitated--"folks said you was a drinkin' man."

He laughed out.

"I did get overtaken," he owned. "I was awful discouraged, the night I
struck here. I didn't care whether school kept or not. But 'twas Lew
Parker's whiskey," he added, twinkling at her. "That whiskey'd poison a
rat."

She paused, with a handful of chips gathered from the clean grass.

"What was you discouraged about?" she asked kindly.

"Well,"--he hesitated,--"I may as well tell you. I've invented
somethin'. It goes onto a reaper. Mother never believed in it, an' she
turned me down. So I came East. I couldn't get anybody to look at it,
an' I was pretty blue. Then the same day I busted my ankle I heard from
another man, an' he'll buy it an' take all the risk, an'--George! I
guess mother'll sing small when Johnnie comes marchin' home!"

He looked so strong and full of hope that her own sorrow cried, and her
face worked piteously.

"You goin' back?" she faltered.

"Sometime, aunt Het. 'Long towards fall, maybe, to get things into
shape. Then I'm comin' back again, to put it through. Who's that?"

It was a neighbor, stopping his slumberous horse to leave a letter.

"That's Susan's hand," said Hetty, as she gave it to him.

He read it and laughed a little. His eyes were moist.

"See here, aunt Het," he said, "mother's had a change of heart because I
busted my ankle an' you took care of me an' all,--an' look here! she
says she wants you should use the long pastur'."

Hetty dropped her apron and the chips it held. She stood silent for a
moment, looking out over the meadow and wishing Willard knew. Then she
said practically,--

"Soon 's your ankle'll bear ye, we'll poke down there an' see how things
seem."

In a week's time they went slowly down to look over the fences,
preparatory to turning in the cow. Hetty glanced at the sky, with its
fleece of flying cloud, and then at the grass, so bright that the eyes
marveled at it. The old ache was keen within her. The earth bereft of
her son would never be the same earth again, but some homely comforting
had reached her with the springing of the leaf. She looked at the boy by
her side. He was a pretty boy, she thought, and she was glad Susan had
him. And suddenly it came to her that he had been len