But it was none of her business, she sagely concluded, and could wait the light of the future. Maybe Brand would some day tell her all about it. So she worked and planned for two days more. At their end she drove the cultivator to the stable and stood stretching her tired shoulder muscles while Bud unharnessed the team. She looked back at the field with smiling eyes. “Can only get in it about once more,” she said, “it’s growing so fast.” “Pretty,” Bud said, “pretty as you, almost. Do you know you’re awfully pretty, Sis?” “Hush!” she laughed. “You’ll make me vain. Pretty is as pretty does, you know.” “Well, the Lord knows you do enough,” returned the boy bitterly, “if I was only half a man——” “Bud!” cried Nance quickly, “you’re the most sure-enough he-man I know. You’ve got the patience and the courage of ten common men. If it hadn’t been for your steady backing I’d never be on Nameless now. I’d have quit long back.” “Like the dickens you would!” said Bud, but a grin replaced the shadow of bitterness on his face. Supper that night was particularly pleasant. There were new potatoes and green peas from the garden down by the river, and a plate of the never failing cookies of which Sonny could not get enough. “He’s hollow to his toes,” said Mrs. Allison, “I can’t never seem to get him full.” “The little shaver’s starved,” said Bud. “Not starved, but he ain’t had regular food—not right to grow on. I can see a difference already.” Nance reached over an investigating hand to feel the small shoulder. It bore proudly a brand new shirt made from one of Bud’s old ones. To be sure, there was a striking dissimilitude of colors, since part of the fabric had been under a pocket and had not faded, but Sonny wore it with the air of kings and princes. “Yes, sir,” she said judicially, “he _is_ gaining, sure as the world!” It seemed to Nance that night that all was well with the world, very well. There seemed a wider margin of hope than usual, as if success, so long denied them, was hovering like a gigantic bird above the homestead, as if their long labor was about to have its reward. She fell asleep thinking of the whispering field, of the trip to Bement, and—of Brand Fair’s quiet, dark eyes, the look of the chin-strap on his brown cheek. She laid a loving hand on Sonny’s little head on the pillow of the improvised crib beyond her own big bed—and the world went swiftly from her consciousness. She slept quickly and deeply, as do all those who work hard in the sun and wind—the blessed boon of labor. * * * * * It seemed to her that she had hardly lost consciousness when Old John announced from his rafter perch the coming of another day and she saw the faint light of dawn on the sky outside.