gmy race, who,
by his braggart will, had that night brought upon this one of his
descendants the scorn of a woman.

And even as he thought of her, she came in, with the yellow flare of a
candle lighting her vivid face.

"I thought you might need a light," she said; "it grows dark so soon."

As he took the candle from her, he said abruptly: "I shall not sleep in
the canopy bed; there is a couch in the room."

"Oh," her tone was startled, "you shouldn't have taken all that I said
in earnest."

"But you meant it?"

"In a way, yes. I have been in here so often and have looked at your
grandfather's picture. He was a great little man--you can tell from his
eyes--they seem to speak at times."

"To you?"

"Yes. Of how he hated to be little, and how he triumphed when fame came
at last."

"I hate to be little--"

It was the first time that he had ever owned it. Even as a tiny boy he
had brazened it out, boasting of his mental achievements and slurring
the weakness of his stunted body.

"I know," she had shut the kitchen door behind her, and they were
standing in the hallway alone, "I know. Every man must want to be big."

She was only the girl who had waited on the table, but as she stood
there, looking at him with luminous eyes, he burned with dull
resentment, envying the blond boy who had sprawled at the head of the
supper table. After all, it was to such a man as Otto Brand that this
woman would some day turn.

He spoke almost roughly: "Size isn't everything." She flushed. "How rude
you must think me," she said; "but I have been so interested in
dissecting your grandfather that I forgot--you--"

Van Alen was moved by an impulse that he could not control, a primitive
impulse that was not in line with his usual repression.

"I am tempted to make you remember me," he said slowly, and after that
there was a startled silence. And then she went away.

As he passed the sitting-room on his way up-stairs, he looked in, and
spoke to Otto Brand.

More than any of the other brothers, Otto typified strength and beauty,
but in his eyes was never a dream, his brain had mastered nothing. He
was playing idly with the yellow cat, but he stopped at Van Alen's
question.

"Her great-grandfather and yours were neighbors," the boy said, with his
cheeks flushing; "they own the next farm."

"The Wetherells?" Van Alen inquired.

The boy nodded. "They ain't got a cent. They're land poor. That's why
she's here. But she don't n