Poor Peggy wondered, in her dull way, if she had been dreaming the astonishing things that had set her heart beating. To reassure herself she took a candle and went out to the wood-shed. No; there, in the dim shadows of the cobwebby place, was the stanza that was proof of her son's genius. Then Peggy reflected with a glad heart that it was the accepted belief of the world that geniuses were always cranky and uncomfortable, and, womanlike, Peggy gave thanks that it was permitted her to have a genius for her own. Soon after breakfast Billy began his life work with a dull pain in the region of his heart. He went up to Filmer's shack and found him out; he then hauled and pulled the tagged bundles of pine trees, which Jock had left standing by the door, down to the Station. "What in the name"--Tom Smith paused to expectorate--"of all," (it is needless to enumerate the name of the gods by which Tom swore) "yer doing with them sapling pines?" "Mind yer business," Billy returned, panting under the last load. "Put 'em on the train; that's you're lookout; and here's the money to pay for their ticket down State." Billy had found the money in an envelope tied to the trees. "Well, I'll--be--blowed." Tom spelled out the address and took the money. "Where does these hail from?" he asked. "From the bungalow," Billy replied with unlooked-for promptness. Tom had nothing more to say. The bungalow people had the right of way on the branch road. To and from the Junction the name of Drew was one to conjure with. "I guess," Tom spat wide and far, "I guess she's aiming to decorate the hull blamed town, back there, with greens. She don't mind slashing, she don't." "Shut up!" Billy commanded. Tom turned to look at the boy, who in the recent past had been his legitimate property, in common with others, to kick and swear at. "Well by--" But he neither kicked nor swore at Billy. He relieved himself by expressing his feelings to inanimate objects. Then Billy went up to the tavern. The dull pain was relaxing. The fine, cold air was clearing his muddled wits, and he felt the milk of human kindness reasserting itself in his new-born nature. "Mr. Tate," he asked boldly, stepping behind the screen to the men's side. "Any letters here for Joyce?" Tate, bending over a cask of beer, raised himself, and gave Billy the compliment of a long, hard stare. "Your voice changing, Billy?" he asked blandly. "Gosh! you've growed up terrible suddint. What you doing home in the middle of the season?" "Got--sick," Billy muttered quite truthfully. "Any letters for Joyce?" "I don't keep letters on _this_ side, son." Tate felt compelled to cater to what he recognized in Billy. "And whoever heard of Joyce having letters? If you mean Gaston's mail she's sent for, then I reply straight and honest, and you can tell her--I know _my_ business!