Of course, Elliott couldn't cry, however much she might wish to, with the family all taking their cues from her mood. She said so fiercely to every lump that rose in her throat. She couldn't indulge herself at all adequately in the luxury of being miserable; she couldn't even let herself feel half as scared as she wished to, because, if she did, just once, she couldn't keep control of herself, and if she lost control of herself there was no telling where she might end--certainly in no state that would be of any use to the family. No, for their sake, she must sit tight on the lid of her grief and fear and anxiety. But there were hours when the cover lifted a little. No girl, not the bravest, could avoid such altogether. Elliott didn't think herself brave, not a bit. She knew merely that the thing she had to do couldn't be done if there were many such hours. One day Bruce heard somebody sobbing up in the hay-loft. The sound didn't carry far; it was controlled, suppressed; but Bruce had gone up the ladder for something or other, I forget just what, and, thinking Priscilla was in trouble, he kept on. The girl crying, face down in the hay, wasn't Priscilla. Very softly Bruce started to tiptoe away, but the rustling of the hay under his feet betrayed him. "I didn't mean--any one to--find me." "Shall I go away?" She shook her head. "I can't stand it!" she wailed. "I simply can't _stand it_!" And she sobbed as though her heart would break. Bruce sat down beside the girl on the hay and patted the hand nearest him. He didn't know anything else to do. Her fingers closed on his convulsively. "I'm an awful old cry-baby," she choked at last. "I'll behave myself, in a minute." "No, cry away," said Bruce. "A girl has to cry sometimes." After a while the racking sobs spent themselves. "There!" she said, sitting up. "I never thought I'd let a boy see me cry. Now I must go in and help Trudy get supper." She dabbed at her eyes with a wet little wad of linen. Bruce plucked a clean handkerchief from his pocket and tucked it into her fingers. "Yours doesn't seem quite big enough for the job," he said. She took it gratefully. She had never thought of a boy as a very comforting person, but Bruce was. "Oh, Bruce, you _know_!" "Yes, I know." "It's so--so lonely. Dad's all I've got, of my really own, in the world." He nodded. "You're gritty, all right." "Why, Bruce Fearing! how can you say that after the way I've acted?" "That's why I say it." "But I'm scared all the time. If I did what I wanted to, I'd be a perpetual fountain." "And you're not." She stared at him. "Is being scared and trying to cover it up what you call grit?" "The grittiest kind of grit."