zing off
into the distance. Osmond was pale. He looked as if he had not slept,
and the lines about his mouth hinted at decisions.

"I want to speak to you," said Peter abruptly.

"Yes. I want to speak to you, too." The answer was gravely and almost
unwillingly given. "Come out under the tree."

They took their way silently to the apple tree, but there neither could,
after old custom in a talk, throw himself on the ground to luxuriate
and, in moments of doubt, chew a blade of grass. Peter walked back and
forth, a short tether. Osmond, fixed in some unexplained reserve,
awaited him. Peter spoke first, nervously.

"Electra has given me up."

"Well, it was bound to come."

"Why was it?"

"It was a dream, Pete. You dreamed it when you were a boy. It was the
best you had then."

"Well, there's something else. That's not a dream. But I don't know that
I can talk of it yet. What was it you wanted to say to me?"

At intervals all night Osmond had been wondering how to broach it.

"You know, boy," he began at last, "it isn't good for you any more to
have me send you money."

Peter stared.

"But it's our money," he said.

Osmond too stared, but not at him. He was wondering whether Peter could
possibly fail to see that the money, all these years, had not come by
favor, that it had been earned by Osmond's own arduous grappling with
the earth, that struggle out of which the man had gained strength and
the earth had yielded her fruits.

"You see, boy," he hesitated, "there isn't anything but the place, and
that's grannie's."

"Yes, but the place earns something."

"Not without a good deal put into it."

"Ah!" Peter drew a breath of pure surprise. "You're tired of overseeing,
old boy. I don't wonder. Of course you must let up."

Again Osmond waited, not so much to commune with himself as from sheer
disinclination to face the awkwardness of speech. It was impossible to
say, "I am not tired of serving you, but you must not be served. You
must carry your pack."

"You see," he began again, "the place must stand intact while grannie
lives. After that, we don't know. But now--Pete, you must paint your
pictures."

"Of course!" But the response was wavering. Peter smiled radiantly.
"Come, old chap," he said, "you're not going to make rules for me,
because it's better for the white man to bear his burden."

Osmond, too, tried to smile, and failed in it.

"I don't know but I am," he said, with a wry face. "Pete, I w