Lily took her hand in both hers as if by a caress she could impart her own faith. "Look up, dear. When nature is so good and generous, man must come to be better, surely. Come, go in the house again. Sim is there; he expects you; he told me to tell you he was sorry." Lucretia's face twitched a little at that, but her head was bent. "Come; you can't live this way. There isn't any other place to go to." No; that was the bitterest truth. Where on this wide earth, with its forth-shooting fruits and grains, its fragrant lands and shining seas, could this dwarfed, bent, broken, middle-aged woman go? Nobody wanted her, nobody cared for her. But the wind kissed her drawn lips as readily as those of the girl, and the blooms of clover nodded to her as if to a queen. Lily had said all she could. Her heart ached with unspeakable pity and a sort of terror. "Don't give up, Lucretia. This may be the worst hour of your life. Live and bear with it all for Christ's sake--for your children's sake. Sim told me to tell you he was to blame. If you will only see that you are both to blame and yet neither to blame, then you can rise above it. Try, dear!" Something that was in the girl imparted itself to the wife, electrically. She pulled herself together, rose silently, and started toward the house. Her face was rigid, but no longer sullen. Lily followed her slowly, wonderingly. As she neared the kitchen door, she saw Sim still sitting at the table; his face was unusually grave and soft. She saw him start and shove back his chair--saw Lucretia go to the stove and lift the tea-pot, and heard her say, as she took her seat beside the baby: "Want some more tea?" She had become a wife and mother again, but in what spirit the puzzled girl could not say. ----------------------------------------------------------------------- PART V. SATURDAY NIGHT ON THE FARM: BOYS AND HARVEST HANDS. In mystery of town and play The splendid lady lives alway, Inwrought with starlight, winds and streams. SATURDAY NIGHT ON THE FARM. A group of men were gathered in Farmer Graham's barn one rainy day in September; the rain had stopped the stacking, and the men were amusing themselves with feats of skill and strength. Steve Nagle was the champion, no matter what came up; whether shouldering a sack of wheat, or raising weights or suspending himself with one hand, he left the others out of the race. "Aw! it's no good foolun' with such puny little men as you," he swaggered at last, throwing himself down upon a pile of sacks. "If our hired man was here I bet he'd beat you all holler," piped a boy's voice from the doorway. Steve raised himself up and glared. "What's that thing talkun'?" The boy held his ground. "You can brag when he ain't around, but I bet he can lick you with one hand tied behind him; don't you, Frank?"