for that unerring expression which never deceives her? Is there any excuse a mother can give her daughter, budding into womanhood, for bringing her into the world to face disgrace, possibly crime? Does a son, born of such parents, have that respect and confidence toward father and mother that he should? Sue Paisley lived on that beautiful farm where Jack was born. She was on a visit while "Thad" attended important business in the great cotton markets of the South. She loved the brook that gurgled and splashed along its course. Nodding bluebells coquetted with the tiny wave crests, while the grass along the bank waved little blades in defiance at the roar of its voice. Each summer Sue sang its praises to the tinkle of the whetstone as the farm hand sharpened his scythe, tink, tink, tinkety tink. When she married, she left the long rows of maple trees, the great red barn, the stuffy parlor, the spare room with its high feather bed and Dutch clock; the big round dining table with tilting top, blue and white chinaware, and the long well sweep, to become hostess in the more pretentious surroundings of a small city on the Connecticut, living long enough to realize how futile were her efforts to stay the temptations which beset "Thad" on every hand. Misfortune overtook all his financial investments, and, as one enterprise followed another in the maelstrom of speculation, Sue's life ebbed away, leaving Jack and his sisters to be cared for by a spinster aunt, who undertook the responsibility at the earnest solicitation of "Thad." The awakening from sin was that of genuine remorse and sorrow. With the characteristic determination of those rugged ancestors, "Thad" broke off all his former boon companionships, started on entirely new lines of life and succeeded in living down the awful past. In a few years he remarried, giving Jack a mother who learned to love her stepson as her own. Jack was not the ever industrious boy in school, but he was quick to learn both kinds of knowledge, useful and mischievous. That is the reason why the old red school-house, at the top of the hill, held pleasant recollections for him in after life. Of course, "J-A-C-K" was carved into the top of every desk at which he sat and, as the first row of desks was the "baby" or A, B, C row, the next one a little larger, and so on, the four rows of "boxes" represented four classes, and Jack managed to stay in each class long enough to carve his name where future generations would find it. "He's the most trying pupil in the school," was what the teacher told everybody in the little village.