life.
Besides, when a thing's done, and 'fessed, and paid for, it's all over
with dad. He's perfectly fair, I must say that. He doesn't nag like
girls do."

"Now _you_ drop _that_, Danny, and I'll tell you what I think is the
matter with father. But you must promise not to speak to him about
it."

"All right, I promise. What is it?"

"I guess--now mind, you mustn't tell--but I'm almost sure it is
something about our Uncle Abel. A letter came last month, postmarked
Colorado; and last week there was another letter in the same
handwriting from Harrisburg. Father has been reading them over and
over, and looking sadder each time. I guess perhaps Uncle Abel is in
trouble or else----"

"You mean father's rich brother that lives out West? Billy Slocum
told me about him once--says he's a king-pin out there, owns a mine a
mile deep and full of gold, keeps lots of fast horses, wins races all
over the country. He must be great. You mean him? Why doesn't father
ever speak of him?"

The girl nodded her head and lowered her voice, glancing back to see
that Ruth was not listening.

"You see," she continued, "father and Uncle Abel had a break--not a
quarrel, but a kind of a divide--when they were young men. Lucy Slocum
heard all about it from her grandmother, and told me. They were in a
college scrape together, and father took his punishment, and after
that he was converted, and you know how good he is. But his brother
got mad, and he ran away from college, out West, and I reckon he has
been--well, pretty bad. They say he gambled and drank and did all
sorts of things. He said the world owed him a fortune and a good time.
Now he's got piles of money and a great big place he calls Due North,
with herds of cattle and ponies and a house full of pictures and
things. I guess he's quieted down some, but he isn't married, and
they say he isn't at all religious. He's what they call a
free-thinker, and he just travels around with his horses and spends
money. I suppose that is why father does not speak of him. You know he
thinks that's all wrong, very wicked, and he wants to keep us separate
from it all."

The boy listened to this long, breathless confidence in silence,
kicking the lumps of snow in the road as he trudged along.

"Well," he said, "it seems kind of awful to have two brothers divided
like that, doesn't it, Essie? But I suppose father's right, he 'most
always is. Only I wish they'd make it up, and Uncle Abel would come
he