“Take these very neighbors,” pursued Esther, with gentle determination. “Something must be very wrong indeed when they behave to you the way they do. Why, I know that even now, right down in their hearts, they recognize that you’re far and away the best man in Agrippa. Why, I remember, Mr. Beech, when I first applied, and you were school-commissioner, and you sat there through the examination--why, you were the only one whose opinion I gave a rap for. When you praised me, why, I was prouder of it than if you had been a Regent of the University. And I tell you, everybody all around here feels at bottom just as I do.” “They take a dummed curious way o’ showin’ it, then,” commented Abner, roundly. “It isn’t _that_ they’re trying to show at all,” said Esther. “They feel that other things are more important. They’re all wrought up over the war. How could it be otherwise when almost every one of them has got a brother, or a father, or--or--_a son_--down there in the South, and every day brings news that some of these have been shot dead, and more still wounded and crippled, and others--_others_, that God only knows _what_ has become of them--oh, how can they help feeling that way? I don’t know that I ought to say it”--the school-ma’am stopped to catch her breath, and hesitated, then went on--“but yes, you’ll understand me _now_--there was a time here, not so long ago, Mr. Beech, when I downright hated you--you and M’rye both!” This was important enough to turn over for. I flopped as unostentatiously as possible, and neither of them gave any sign of having noted my presence. The farmer sat with his back against the door, the quilt drawn up to his waist, his head bent in silent meditation. His whole profile was in deep shadow from where I lay--darkly massive and powerful and solemn. Esther was watching him with all her eyes, leaning forward from her chair, the lantern-light full upon her eager face. “M’rye an’ I don’t lay ourselves out to be specially bad folks, as folks go,” the farmer said at last, by way of deprecation. “We’ve got our faults, of course, like the rest, but--” “No,” interrupted Esther, with a half-tearful smile in her eyes. “You only pretend to have faults. You really haven’t got any at all.” The shadowed outline of Abner’s face softened. “Why, that _is_ a fault itself, ain’t it?” he said, as if pleased with his logical acuteness. The crowing of some foolish rooster, growing tired of waiting for the belated November daylight, fell upon the silence from one of the buildings near by. Abner Beech rose to his feet with ponderous slowness, pushing the bedclothes aside with his boot, and stood beside Esther’s chair. He laid his big hand on her shoulder with a patriarchal gesture. “Come now,” he said, gently, “you go back to bed, like a good girl, an’ get some sleep. It’ll be all right.”