what's the use of my being proud? That was my brother, and
he drinks. I guess you'd know it to look at him, wouldn't you? It was he
who stole my money. That's the kind of people I belong to."

Peggy got to her feet. She had an odd feeling that she could not do her
subject justice sitting on a woodpile, with her feet dangling.

"Lucy Haines," she said with a severity partly contradicted by the
kindness of her eyes, "I'm ashamed of you. I can tell just by the little
I know of you, what kind of ancestors you had, and you ought to be
thankful for them every day you live. Think of all the sickly people in
the world, that can't more than half live at best, and you with your
splendid, strong body. And think of the stupid ones, who try to learn
and can't, and you seeing through everything like a flash. I know what
kind of people you belong to, Lucy Haines, and you ought to be proud and
thankful, too."

The immediate effect of this outburst was a surprise. Lucy Haines sat
down on the chopping-block and began to cry. She cried as if the pent-up
sorrows of her life were at last finding outlet, cried as if she never
meant to stop. Peggy in her dismay tried coaxing, scolding, petting,
each in turn, and at last gave up the vain endeavor, and took her old
place on the woodpile, to wait till Lucy should have come to the end of
her tears.

At last the figure in the soiled calico was no longer shaken by
convulsive sobs. Lucy turned toward the patient watcher on the woodpile,
and in spite of her swollen lids and blood-shot eyes, Peggy knew it was
the old Lucy looking up at her. "Well?" she demanded cheerfully. "It's
all right, isn't it?"

"Yes," Lucy agreed hesitatingly. "I'm going to try again, if that's what
you mean."

"And you'll come to-morrow?"

"Yes, I'll come to-morrow, if you're not too disgusted to bother with me
any longer," said Lucy humbly.

"Well, it's time for Hobo and me to be going home." Peggy jumped to her
feet, crossed briskly to the unkempt figure, and stooping, kissed a
tear-stained cheek. And then Lucy's arms went about her, and clasped her
close in passionate gratitude.

"Peggy Raymond," said a stifled voice, "I can't do anything to pay you
back, but this. I promise you I'll make you proud of me yet. You were
ashamed of me to-day, but if I live, I'll make you proud of me." And
Peggy had one more bewildering impression to add to the varied catalogue
of characteristics which made up the Lucy Haines, whom