As for herself? Well, Aunt Polly nourished her own brave spirit by service and an insistent, demanding cry of justice. "'Tain't fair and square to hold anything against the Almighty," she proclaimed, "till you've given Him a chance to show what He did things for." Polly waxed eloquent and courageous; she kept her own faith by voicing it to others; it grew upon reiteration. Peter was in one of his worst combinations--silence and low spirits--when Polly entered the kitchen one early afternoon. A glance at the huddling form by the red-hot range had the effect of turning Polly into steel. She looked at Ginger, who reflected his master's moods pathetically, and her steel became iron. "I suppose if I ask you, Peter, how you're feeling," she said slowly, calmly, "you'll fling your leg in my face! It's monstrous to see how an able-bodied man can use any old lie to save his countenance." "My leg----" Peter began, but Polly stopped him. She had hung her coat and hood in the closet and came to the fire, patting her thin hair in order and then stretching her small, blue-veined hands to the heat. "Don't leg me, Peter Heathcote, I'm terrible ashamed of you. Terrible. So long as you _have_ legs, brother--and you _have_!--I say use 'em. Half the troubles in this world are _think troubles_, laid to legs and backs and what not." "Where you been?" Peter eyed the stern little face glowering at him. "You look tuckered." "I wasn't tuckered until I set my eyes on you, Peter. I've been considerable set up to-day. I went to Mary-Clare's. She is mighty heartening. She's gathered all the children she can get and she's teaching them. She's mimicking the old doctor's plan--making him live again, she calls it--and the Lord knows we need someone in the Forest who doesn't set chewing his own troubles, but gets out and does things!" Peter winced and Polly rambled on: "It's really wonderful the way that slip of a thing handles those children. She has made the yellow house like a fairy story--evergreens, red leaves and berries hanging about, and all the dogs with red-ribbon collars. They look powerful foolish, but they don't look like poor Ginger, who acts as if he was being smothered!" Peter regarded the dog by his side and remarked sadly: "I guess we better change this dog's name. Ginger is like an insult to him. Ginger! Lord-a-mighty, there ain't no ginger left in him." "Peter, you're all wrong. There are times when I think Ginger is more gingery than ever. You don't have to dash around after yer tail to prove yer ginger, the thinking part of you can be terrible nimble even when yer bones stiffen up. Ginger does things, brother, that sometimes makes my flesh creepy. Do you know what he does when he can get away from you?" "No." Peter's hair sprang up; his face reddened. Polly noted the good signs and took heart.