oing up again, and I must go through with this
plowing. Of course, it does not sound very sensible."

Miss Barrington looked at him gravely, for there was a curious and
steadily-tightening bond between the two. "It depends upon what you
mean by sense. Can we reason out all we feel, and is there nothing,
intangible but real, behind the impulses which may be sent to us?"

"Well," said Winston, with a little smile, "that is a trifle too deep
for me, and it's difficult to think of anything but the work I have to
do. But you were the first at Silverdale to hold out a hand to me--and
I have a feeling that your good wishes would go a long way now. Is it
altogether fantastic to believe that the good-will of my first friend
would help to bring me prosperity?"

The white-haired lady's eyes grew momentarily soft, and, with a gravity
that did not seem out of place, she moved forward and laid her hand on
a big horse's neck, and smiled when the dumb beast responded to her
gentle touch.

"It is a good work," she said. "Lance, there is more than dollars, or
the bread that somebody is needing, behind what you are doing, and
because I loved your mother I know how her approval would have followed
you. And now sow in hope, and God speed your plow!"

She turned away almost abruptly, and Winston stood still with one hand
closed tightly and a little deeper tint in the bronze of his face,
sensible at once of an unchanged resolution and a horrible degradation.
Then he saw that the Colonel had helped Miss Barrington into the saddle
and her niece was speaking.

"I have something to ask Mr. Courthorne and will overtake you," she
said.

The others rode on, and the girl turned to Winston. "I made you a
promise and did my best to keep it, but I find it harder than I fancied
it would be," she said. "I want you to release me."

"I should like to hear your reasons," said Winston.

The girl made a faint gesture of impatience. "Of course, if you
insist."

"I do," said Winston quietly.

"Then I promised you to have my holding sown this year, and I am still
willing to do so, but though my uncle makes no protest, I know he feels
my opposition very keenly, and it hurts me horribly. Unspoken
reproaches are the worst to bear, you know, and now Dane and some of
the others are following your lead, it is painful to feel that I am
taking part with them against the man who has always been kind to me."

"And you would prefer to be loyal to C