r had
been that first summer in the sod house on the bench, and something
in her appearance suggested that with her mother's beauty and fine
sensibility she had inherited the indomitable spirit which had made
John Harris one of the must prosperous farmers in the district. She
moved in an easy, unconscious grace of self-reliance--a reliance that
must be just a little irritating to men of old-fashioned notions
concerning woman's dependence on the sterner sex--drew the long
wooden table, with its covering of white oilcloth, into the centre of
the kitchen, and began placing the dishes in position.

"I don't see why we can't have supper in the dining-room," she
protested at length. "Before we built the new house we were always
talking about how fine it would be to have a separate room, for our
meals, and now we don't eat in it once a week."

"I know," said the mother, in a quiet, tired voice. "But you know
what your father thinks about it. You know how down he is on style."

"It's no great style to eat in a dining-room," continued the girl.
"What did he build it for? To take off his boots in? That's about all
he does there, nights before he goes to bed."

"Now, Beulah, don't be unreasonable. You know we always have meals
there Sundays. But your father likes the kitchen best when it ain't
too hot. And besides, I can hardly take them into the dining-room
while the ploughing's on. You know how greasy they are with the
engine."

"They're ploughing over at Grant's, too, and when I dropped in there
yesterday the dinner was set in the dining-room, and a clean white
linen cloth on the table, and napkins set for the men, and I guess
they use the same kind of grease as we do," persisted the girl. "And
I noticed when they came in to dinner Mr. Grant and the boys, and the
hired man too, all put their coats on--not their working coats, but
coats they had hanging in a closet handy. It didn't take a minute,
but it looked different."

"Now, Beulah, you know your father would never stand for putting on
airs like that. He--"

"'Tisn't putting on airs. It's putting on clothes--clean clothes to
eat in. Susy Grant never has to feel--I hate to say it,
Mother--_ashamed_ if any of her friends drop in at mealtime. And I
couldn't help thinking how fine Harry looked--"

"'Pon my word, Beulah, I'm beginning to think you must be a bit soft
on Harry Grant. I had thought perhaps your weakness was toward Jim,
but perhaps I'm mistaken."

"Can't