ERIS BY ROBERT W. CHAMBERS AUTHOR OF “THE FLAMING JEWEL,” “THE LITTLE RED FOOT,” “THE SLAYER OF SOULS,” “IN SECRET,” “THE COMMON LAW,” ETC. NEW YORK GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY COPYRIGHT, 1922, BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY [Illustration] ERIS. I PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA TO MY FRIEND HARRY PAYNE BURTON ERIS ERIS CHAPTER I The baby was born at Whitewater Farms about nine in the morning, April 19, 1900. Two pure-breed calves,--one a heifer, the other a bull,--were dropped the same day at nearly the same hour. Odell came in toward noon, heard these farm items from his foreman, Ed Lister. For twenty years Odell’s marriage had been childless. He had waited in vain for a son,--for several sons,--and now, after twenty sterile years of hardship, drudgery, and domestic discord, Fanny had given him a girl. He stood in silence, chewing the bitter news. “Awright,” he said, “that’s _that_! Is Queen doin’ good?” Whitewater Queen was doing as well as could be expected and her fourth heifer-calf was a miracle of Guernsey beauty. “Awright! Veal that danged bull-caaf. That’s White Chief’s second bull outa White Rose. I’m done. We’ll take her to Hilltop Acres next time. And that’s that!” He dusted the fertiliser and land plaster from his patched canvas jacket: “It blowed some,” he said. “I oughta waited. Cost me five dollars, mebbe. I thought it might rain; that’s why. It’s one dum thing after another. It allus comes like that.” He scraped the bottom of his crusted boots against the concrete rim of the manure pit. A bitter winter with practically no snow; dry swamps; an April drouth; a disastrous run of bull-calves with no market,--and now, after twenty years, a girl baby! How was a man going to get ahead? How was he to break even? Twenty years Odell had waited for sons to help him. He should have had three or four at work by this time. Instead he was paying wages. “I guess Fanny’s kinda bad,” remarked the foreman. Odell looked up from his brooding study of the manure. “I dunno,” continued the foreman; “another Doc is here, too. He come with a train nurse n’hour ago. Looks kinda bad to me, Elmer.” Odell gazed stupidly at Lister. “What other Doc?” he demanded. “Old Doc Benson. Doc Wand sent Mazie for him.” Odell said nothing. After a moment or two he walked slowly toward the house. In the kitchen a neighbour, one Susan Hagan, a gross widow, was waddling around getting dinner, perspiring and garrulous. Two or three farm hands, in bantering conversation, stood washing or drying their faces at the sink. Mazie, the big, buxom daughter of Ed Lister, moved leisurely about, setting the table. She was laughing, as usual, at the men’s repartee. But when Odell appeared the clatter of the roller-towel ceased. So did Mazie’s laughter and the hired men’s banter. Mrs. Hagan was the first to recover her tongue: