“But you ain’t taken time to make up your mind, Demaris. I’ll wait fer ’n answer.” “It’s no use. I made up my mind out ’n the hall. You might as well go. When I make up my mind it’s no use in tryin’ to get me to change it. I hadn’t made it up before.” He went to her and took her hands. “Demaris,” he said, and all his heart-break was in his voice, “do you mean it? Oh, my dear, I’ll go if you send me; but I’ll never come back again; never.” She hesitated but a second. Then she said very gently, without emotion—“Yes, go. You’ve been good to me; but it’s all over. Good-bye.” He dropped her hands without a word, and went. She did not look after him, or listen to his footsteps. She went to the cellar with Nellie, to get the kindling wood, which she arranged in the stove, ready for the match in the morning. Then she went into her mother’s room. She looked pale in the flickering light of the candle. “I’ll take care of ma, now, pa,” she said. “You get to bed an’ rest. I know you’re all tired out—plowin’ ever since sun-up! An’ don’t you get up till I call you. I ain’t a bit sleepy. I couldn’t sleep if I went to bed.” She moistened her fingers with camphor and commenced bathing her mother’s brow. ESTHER’S “FOURTH” ESTHER’S “FOURTH” It was the fourth day of July, and the fourth hour of the day. Long, beryl ribbons of color were streaming through the lovely Grand Ronde valley when the little girl awoke—so suddenly and so completely that it seemed as if she had not been asleep at all. “Sister!” she cried in a thin, eager voice. “Ain’t it time to get up? It’s just struck four.” “Not yet,” said the older girl drowsily. “There’s lots o’ time, Pet.” She put one arm under the child affectionately and fell asleep again. The little girl lay motionless, waiting. There was a large cherry tree outside, close to the tiny window above her bed, and she could hear the soft turning of the leaves, one against the other, and the fluttering of the robins that were already stealing the cherries. Innocent thieves that they were, they continually betrayed themselves by their shrill cries of triumph. Not far from the tiny log-cabin the river went singing by on its way through the green valley; hearing it, Esther thought of the soft glooms under the noble balm trees, where the grouse drummed and butterflies drifted in long level flight. Esther always breathed softly while she watched the butterflies—she had a kind of reverence for them—and she thought there could be nothing sweeter, even in heaven, than the scents that the wind shook out of the balms. She lay patiently waiting with wide eyes until the round clock in the kitchen told her that another hour had gone by. “Sister,” she said then, “oh, it must be time to get up! I just _can’t_ wait any longer.”