“I guesso. Yes. An’ that there Moon-Queen; she’s got a record uv eleven six fifty-four an’ three-tenths and five sixty-two, thirty-four. Herd sire, Chieftain; outa Silver Frost’s daughter, Snow-Crystal of Whitewater----” “Outa Lass o’ the Mist,” croaked Ed Lister in uncompromising correction. “You’re right, Ed,” admitted Elmer. For a time there was no sound save the hissing of milk in the pails. Eris carried her pail to the steelyards, weighed it, took the pencil dangling by its string and filled in her memoranda opposite the name of Guelder-Rose. Then she transferred her attentions to Apple-bloom’s Daughter. “Made a lotta money, Eris?” inquired Elmer abruptly. “Some.” “Waal, I guess you spent it, too.” “No.” “Hey? Got it yet?” “Most of it, Dad.” “Waal, I’ll be jiggered.... What you aimin’ to do with it, Eris?” “Save it.” “Any investments?” “Some.” “What d’ya buy? Wild-cats?” “Liberty bonds.” “Gosh!” Cyrus’ voice from behind a cow: “You gotta go to the city to make money.” Elmer said: “You poor, dumb thing, they’d skin ya. You ain’t got a gift like Eris. G’wan an’ weigh your milk ’n’ shut your face.” Cyrus muttered for a while. Eris said: “There seems to be too many people for the jobs in New York.... The poor are everywhere.... I’ve seen them sleeping in the grass in the public parks.” “Ya hear that, Si?” demanded Elmer. Unstirring, solemn, dim of eye, Ed Lister spoke: “I was to York in ’85. I seen things in my day.” Elmer said to Eris: “Ed he worked in West Fourteenth Street. He knows what, too, same’s you.” “I was a-truckin’ it fur Amos T. Brown & Company,” said the old man shrilly. “I was a hefty fella, I was. I seen doin’s in my time, I did. But they hain’t nothin’ into it. You spend more’n you git down to York. Yes, marm.” Cyrus sniffed derisively, unconvinced. Buddy, having shaken down sufficient hay, came in with a sack of lime. “You most done?” he inquired. “Supper’s ready, I guess.” CHAPTER XXXIII Annan’s letters came to her every day. She answered infrequently,--not oftener than once a week. Other letters were forwarded from Jane Street,--persistent letters from Smull begging to know where she had gone,--abject letters betraying all the persistence of a man who knows no pride, no shame in pursuit where there ever had been an end to gain. Eris read only the first of Smull’s letters. The others went, unopened, into the kitchen range. Twice, also, her husband wrote her,--evidently aware of annulment proceedings,--vaguely threatening her in case she married Smull,--furnishing her with a mass of filthy detail concerning Smull’s private life, menacing her and him, pleading,--sometimes begging for money. She read both letters, sent them to her attorney, and cleansed her mind of them and of the creature who had written them. * * * * *