With which he strutted out of the wagon with the serious feeling of a muchly married man. Somehow Dan had “adopted” Thurley. He felt personally responsible for her happiness and support, and, when he tried convincing his father that Thurley ought to get nine dollars a week for doing nothing and his father jokingly dismissed the matter, Daniel registered a vow that he must see to it that she had everything for which her feminine soul should desire! It was the first time in his life that the finer part of the lad had had a chance to show itself. Philena Pilrig told her grandmother after Thurley’s first visit, “She makes my fingers tingle down at the ends, and, when she smiles, I want to hug her, and, when she sings, I want to cry and dance all at once.” Philena, who was eleven but small because of the twisted spine, sat in the window facing the old wagon car, so she could catch glimpses of Thurley striding about bare-legged, her ragged dress fluttering gracefully in the breeze, whistling or singing or calling out to her father who lay on the lounge and coughed and complained. Having invited the Precores to camp on her land, Betsey Pilrig also felt responsible for their welfare. She saw to it that Thurley washed dishes and ran errands in return for food, and, once, when she ventured over to interview her father as to his intentions of ever working, Thurley stood guard on the steps to tell her “Pa was sleeping—he’s getting that gray look around his lips.” “Thurley, did you ever go to Sunday school?” she asked one afternoon when Thurley and Philena were intent on paper dolls. “No, but it’s where you learn about the Lord and you have a Christmas tree—the evangelist told me.” “Philena gets there except in bad weather—maybe you and she could go together,” Betsey suggested. “I’ve the loveliest teacher!” Philena supplemented. “Her name is Kate Sills, and she’s going to marry the postmaster—she has a beautiful white plume on her hat.” “I’d like to go, if I had shoes. I guess you can’t get in barefoot.” “Maybe we can find shoes, if that’s all that’s wrong.” “I can be a home missionary, granny,” Philena’s little old face lighted with smiles. “You know—the money in my bank.” Thurley flushed. “I don’t want any one’s money—least of all Philena’s. What is a home missionary?” “I’m going to be a foreign missionary when I’m big and strong,” Philena answered. “It’s some one who sails off to China or Africa where they find heathens ready to eat them up; the heathens throw their babies into the river and don’t believe in God, and the missionaries teach them to build nice houses and dress their babies in white and sing songs. I heard a real true one tell about it last winter—she stayed two days at Lorraine’s house—and that’s what I’m going to be, isn’t it, granny?” “If you’re well enough.”