Mrs. McLane began speaking. "Oh, I've longed to see yeh, Howard. I was afraid you wouldn't come till--too late." "What do you mean, mother? Ain't you well?" "I don't seem to be able to do much now 'cept sit around and knit a little. I tried to pick some berries the other day, and I got so dizzy I had to give it up." "You mustn't work. You needn't work. Why didn't you write to me how you were?" Howard asked, in an agony of remorse. "Well, we felt as if you probably had all you could do to take care of yourself. Are you married, Howard?" she broke off to ask. "No, mother; and there ain't any excuse for me--not a bit," he said, dropping back into her colloquialisms. "I'm ashamed when I think of how long it's been since I saw you. I could have come." "It don't matter now," she interrupted gently. "It's the way things go. Our boys grow up and leave us." "Well, come in to supper," said Grant's ungracious voice from the doorway. "Come, mother." Mrs. McLane moved with difficulty. Howard sprang to her aid, and, leaning on his arm, she went through the little sitting room, which was unlighted, out into the kitchen, where the supper table stood near the cook-stove. "How.--this is my wife," said Grant, in a cold, peculiar tone. Howard bowed toward a remarkably handsome young woman, on whose forehead was a scowl, which did not change as she looked at him and the old lady. "Set down anywhere," was the young woman's cordial invitation. Howard sat down next his mother, and facing the wife, who had a small, fretful child in her arms. At Howard's left was the old man, Lewis. The supper was spread upon a gay-colored oil-cloth, and consisted of a pan of milk, set in the midst, with bowls at each plate. Beside the pan was a dipper and a large plate of bread, and at one end of the table was a dish of fine honey. A boy of about fourteen leaned upon the table, his bent shoulders making him look like an old man. His hickory shirt, like Grant's, was still wet with sweat, and discolored here and there with grease, or green from grass. His hair, freshly wet and combed, was smoothed away from his face, and shone in the light of the kerosene lamp. As he ate, he stared at Howard, as though he would make an inventory of each thread of the visitor's clothing. "Did I look like that at his age?" thought Howard. "You see we live just about the same as ever," said Grant, as they began eating, speaking with a grim, almost challenging, inflection. The two brothers studied each other curiously, as they talked of neighborhood scenes. Howard seemed incredibly elegant and handsome to them all, with his rich, soft clothing, his spotless linen, and his exquisite enunciation and ease of speech. He had always been "smooth-spoken," and he had become "elegantly persuasive," as his friends said of him, and it was a large factor in his success.