above him
to be able to fold his head in her arms, to pillow it on her breast,
while she imprinted a long kiss on the thick, dark mass of his hair.
Having released him, she withdrew, closing the window gently and pulling
down the blinds.

Outside in the darkness Thor turned once more to where the Virgin,
recumbent, noble, outlined and crowned with stars, Spica the wheat-ear
in the hand hanging by her side, rose slowly toward mid-heaven.
Irrelevantly there came back to his memory something said months before
by his uncle Sim, but which he had not recalled since the night he heard
it. "You may make an awful fool of yourself, Thor, but you'll be on the
side of the angels--and the angels will be on yours."

"Humph!" he snorted to himself. "That's all very fine. But--where are
the angels?" And again he sought the stars.

CHAPTER XXVIII

It was Jim Breen who told Lois that Jasper Fay's tenancy of the land
north of the pond was definitely ended. "Want a nice fern-tree, Mrs.
Masterman?" he had asked, briskly. "Two or three beauties for sale at
Mr. Fay's place. Look dandy in the corner of a big room. Beat palms and
rubber-plants like a rose'll beat a bur. Get a nice one cheap at Mr.
Fay's."

Lois wondered. "Is Mr. Fay selling off?"

"Well, not exactly. Father's selling what he don't want to cart over to
our place. Didn't you know? Father's bought out Mr. Fay's stock. Mr.
Fay's got to beat it by July ninth."

As Lois looked into the honest face she made the reflection with a
little jealous pang that Rosie Fay was just the type that men like Jim
Breen fell in love with. There was something in men like Jim Breen, in
men like Thor Masterman--the big, generous, tender men--that impelled
them toward piteous little creatures like Rosie Fay, driven probably by
the protective yearning in themselves. It placed the tall women, the
strong women, the women whose first impulse was to give to others rather
than to get anything for themselves, at a disadvantage. In response to
the information just received, she said, anxiously, "Why, Jim, tell me
about it."

He drew from the wagon a wooden "flat" filled with zinnia plantlings,
like so many little green rosettes. "Hadley B. Hobson owns that property
now, Mrs. Masterman," he said, cheerily, depositing the "flat" on the
ground. "Going to build. Didn't you know? Have a dandy place there. Had
architects and landscape-gardeners prowling 'round for the last two
weeks, and old man F