"Bobbie, don't try to climb over that stump. There's a poison vine on it. Money is not everything, George." "Comes devilish near it." "No, George. Money is not love." "Well, I don't know about that," he said, in a way implying that he did know. "Don't be cynical, dear," she replied. "We are both young; we have everything before us." "Everything we had is behind us." She pulled upon his arm, and kissed his dry cheek. "Don't be downcast. Everything will come right." Mitchell, the hired man, came out upon the veranda. "A sappy pea-vine and a dried pea-stick," said Milford, pointing toward George and his wife. "He looks like he's tired," said the hired man. "Yes, a fly in a pot of jam. She's too sweet for him. He ought to break loose from her and run wild for a while--ought to rough it out West on fat sow bosom and heifer's delight. Never were married, were you, Bob?" "Well, not for any length of time. I did marry a girl over near Antioch once, but shortly afterwards they took me up for sellin' liquor without a license, and when I got through with the scrape I found my wife was gone with a feller to Kansas." "Did you ever hear of her?" "Oh, yes, she writ to me. She wanted to come back, but I scratched her word that I'd try to jog along without her. I don't guess women are exactly what they used to be. I reckon the bicycle has changed 'em a good bit." "They want money, Bob. That's what's the matter with 'em." "Well, they've got about all I ever had, them and liquor together, and still they don't seem to be satisfied. Ever married, Bill?" "No. But I was on the edge of falling in love once. She squirted poison at me out of her eyes, and I shook in the knees. Her smile kept me awake two nights, and on the third morning I got on my pony, said good-bye to the settlement, and rode as hard as I could. I don't suppose she really saw me--but I saw her, and that was enough. Well, I believe I'll go over and chin the old woman." Mrs. Stuvic was walking up and down the yard. A number of new boarders had arrived, and she was in a great flurry. She was ever on the lookout for new-comers, but was never prepared for them. She told every one to keep still; she spoke in bywords that barked the shins of profanity. Just as Milford came up, some one told her that her hired man was lying out in the grove, drunk and asleep. Upon her informer she bent a recognition of virtue. It was not exactly a grin. The boarders called it her barbed-wire smile. She thanked him with a nod and a courtesy caught up from a memory of her grandmother. She snatched a buggy whip and sallied forth into the grove. Milford followed her. She told him to stand back. She swore she would give it to him if he presumed to interfere. She knew her business. The Lord never shut her eyes to a duty that lay in front of her. The hired man went howling through the woods, and she returned to the house, smiling placidly. She was always better humored when she had kept faith with duty.