'tis,
but it's got the better o' me and I'm goin' to do what it says. But
'fore I give way to it, I'm goin' to tell you this. You've got as good a
home and as good a son and as good a wife, if I do say it, as any man in
the State o' New Hampshire. And you can keep 'em, Myron, jest as they
be, jest as good as they always have been, if you'll only hear to reason
and give other folks a chance. You've got to give me a chance, and
you've got to give Herman a chance. I guess mebbe I'd sell all my
chances for the sake of turnin' 'em in with Hermie's. But you've got to
do it, and you've got to do it now. And if you don't, somethin' 's goin'
to happen. I don't know what it is. I don't know no more'n the dead, for
this is the first time I ever really knew I had that terrible creatur'
inside of me that's goin' to beat. But I do know it, and you've got to
stand from under."

She turned about and walked to the side window, looking on the garden.
She was a slight woman, but Myron, watching her in the fascination of
his dread, had momentary remembrance of her father, who had been a man
of majestic presence and unflinching will.

"Herman," his wife was calling from the window. "Herman, you come here."

That new mysterious note in her voice evidently affected the young man
also. He came, hurrying, and when he had entered stayed upon the
threshold, warm-hued with work and bringing with him the odor of the
soil. His brown eyes went from one of them to the other, and questioned
them.

"What is it?" he inquired. "What's happened?"

Myron got upon his feet. He had a dazed feeling that the two were
against him, and he could face them better so. He hated the situation,
the abasement that came from a secret self within him which was almost
terribly moved by some of the things his wife had spoken out of her long
silence. He was a proud man, and it seemed to him dreadful that he
should in any way have won such harsh appeal.

"Herman," his wife was beginning, "your father's got somethin' to say to
you."

Herman waited, but his father could not speak. Myron was really seeing,
as in a homely vision, the peace of the garden where he might at this
moment have been expecting the call to dinner if he had not been
summoned to the bar of judgment.

"I guess he's goin' to let me say it," his wife continued. "Father's
goin' to give you a deed o' the Turnbull place. It's goin' to be yours,
same as if you'd bought it, and you and Annie are goin' to