self by his boot-straps.

But Rena was no philosopher, either sad or cheerful. She could not
even have replied to this argument, that races must lift themselves,
and the most that can be done by others is to give them opportunity and
fair play. Hers was a simpler reasoning,--the logic by which the world
is kept going onward and upward when philosophers are at odds and
reformers are not forthcoming. She knew that for every child she
taught to read and write she opened, if ever so little, the door of
opportunity, and she was happy in the consciousness of performing a
duty which seemed all the more imperative because newly discovered.
Her zeal, indeed, for the time being was like that of an early
Christian, who was more willing than not to die for his faith. Rena
had fully and firmly made up her mind to sacrifice her life upon this
altar. Her absorption in the work had not been without its reward, for
thereby she had been able to keep at a distance the spectre of her lost
love. Her dreams she could not control, but she banished Tryon as far
as possible from her waking thoughts.

When Wain's attentions became obviously personal, Rena's new vestal
instinct took alarm, and she began to apprehend his character more
clearly. She had long ago learned that his pretensions to wealth were a
sham. He was nominal owner of a large plantation, it is true; but the
land was worn out, and mortgaged to the limit of its security value.
His reputed droves of cattle and hogs had dwindled to a mere handful of
lean and listless brutes.

Her clear eye, when once set to take Wain's measure, soon fathomed his
shallow, selfish soul, and detected, or at least divined, behind his
mask of good-nature a lurking brutality which filled her with vague
distrust, needing only occasion to develop it into active
apprehension,--occasion which was not long wanting. She avoided being
alone with him at home by keeping carefully with the women of the
house. If she were left alone,--and they soon showed a tendency to
leave her on any pretext whenever Wain came near,--she would seek her
own room and lock the door. She preferred not to offend Wain; she was
far away from home and in a measure in his power, but she dreaded his
compliments and sickened at his smile. She was also compelled to hear
his relations sing his praises.

"My son Jeff," old Mrs. Wain would say, "is de bes' man you ever seed.
His fus' wife had de easies' time an' de happies' time er