"Well, that's what I said, wasn't it?" her brother snapped across at her. "I don't know's the world has got any call to stand still because I don't want 'em, either. I don't want any dinner." "Why, Thanny!" "Well, I don't. That's all there is to it." "But, Thanny, I've got rhubarb pie. I made it a purpose, and I guess it's real good. You ain't going to slight that, Thanny?" "Milly Thacher, for pity's sake do stop Thannying me! Anybody'd think I was ten years old instead of twenty. There! I'm sorry. I'll be a good boy now." He reached his long arm across the table, and touched Millia's face with big, contrite fingers very gently. The sudden remorse softened the morose lines in his face, and lifted for a minute the cloud upon it. It was a strong enough, comely enough young face, its chin rounded out boldly, and the clean-cut mouth above was not at all weak. But Nathan Thacher's face was listless and discouraged, and altogether unhappy. He pushed away his chair, rasping it over the uneven floor as if the discord accorded with his mood. "It's no use, Milly; I'm going to give it up. It's no _use_." "Oh no, Thanny--no, no! You're only tired out and down-spirited this morning, that's all. You don't feel like yourself. The idea of us _giving it up_!" She laughed nervously, with a little shrill, hysterical note in her voice. "Why, we've got to keep right on, Thanny Thacher, just as we promised father we'd do. We've got to keep the old farm running--" "Till it runs down hill into the poorhouse. It's more'n two-thirds down now." "I don't care! Then we've got to pull it up again. We promised father." Millia's defiance had the thrill and surrender of a sob in it, and suddenly she sank down into a heap on the kitchen floor and cried in smothered dreary abandon. The door being open, Nathan looked out, across Millia's huddled shoulders, at the bare stretch of rough uncultivated acres. The scant unthrifty grass divided the honors with rocks and underbrush. There was nothing beautiful nor "sightly" nor encouraging in the prospect, and Nathan Thacher's mouth puckered into a low whistle of contempt. He whistled still louder, and shuffled his feet about to drown the low monotony of Millia's sobs, filling the little room drearily. "Hush up, Milly; there's a good girl," he said at last, prodding her arm gently. "What's the good of wasting all that salt water? Salt may go up."