'I do not require it. I am happy at the mill. I shall not leave it yet a while. I certainly expect nothing from Uncle Ki. He never casts me even a good-day. It is hard for me to suffer because he quarrelled with my mother. I do not suppose I shall ever be the better for my relationship to him. Folks say he is going to marry the Cheap Jack girl.' Zita heard Mark's laugh, and then his answer. 'She will never take him.' 'Why not?' 'He is too old for her.' 'That will not trouble her much,' answered Kainie; 'she calculates the value of everything, and holds a thing to be worth just what money it will bring in. I believe she has no thoughts, no care for anything but money. She knows that Uncle Ki has got land and stock, has a good house and a balance at the bank; she will say "There's profits," and take him—snap at him eagerly.' 'I do not believe you,' said Mark, and laughed. 'But about yourself, not Zita. My mother still objects to my bringing you home to Crumbland and acknowledging you. I do not feel comfortable and happy to be in a good house, and to have you in that hovel at that mill.' 'I cannot go to you so long as your mother is opposed.' 'Perhaps not; but, after all, Kainie, she cannot hold out against you for ever. She loves me too sincerely. She has too right a mind. She will see how it frets me; and then—when all is said and done—I am master of Crumbland, and not she. If I be driven to assert my will, she will submit. She is certain to like, to love you, when she comes to know you. It is but for a little while waiting. I do not wish to have recourse to strong measures if delay will make all go smooth of itself. You understand that, Kainie?' 'I will wait. I am content at the mill. But—oh, Mark! I must tell you a joke. That Cheap Jack girl was at Red Wings the other day, and she wanted to buy you of me—actually purchase you.' 'At what price was I estimated?' 'At a ream of black-edged notepaper and envelopes to match.' Mark burst into laughter. 'That is not all,' continued Kainie. 'When I did not prove eager for the paper, she made another bid.' 'And that—?' 'Was a garden syringe to kill green-fly with soapy water.' Zita heard both laugh merrily. 'I have not done yet,' continued Kainie. 'She finally produced her most splendid offer.' 'And that was—?' 'It was one that almost made me surrender you, Mark. A box of all kinds of scents. And she said'—Kainie could hardly speak for laughing—'I should smell of Jockey Club in chapel—tremenjous—that's her word—tremenjous!' Zita's anger was flaming hot, waves of boiling blood swept through her veins, swept before her eyes and blinded her. Gasping for breath, she rushed up the bank, and, reaching them, struck Kainie on the cheek with her open palm before she or Mark knew she was there. 'It is a shame!' exclaimed Zita, sobbing with emotion. 'It is mean to tell of me—to make sport of me!'