She asked: “You’re really going to--you really mean to get after them?” He nodded, and she laughed. He asked: “What’s the joke?” “Oh, it seems funny for you to be so moral about whisky and things.” He grinned. “It is funny, isn’t it?” “I should think they’d just laugh at you.” “Well, maybe they do.” “I suppose you’re just going to give them a lesson, and then--sort of let things go, aren’t you?” Wint shook his head. “No, I sha’n’t let things go. Not as long as I’m--in charge.” “But lots of people will be awfully mad at you. Why, even your father buys whisky and things, doesn’t he?” “Yes, I suppose so. But he doesn’t sell them.” “Well, some one’s got to sell them to him.” “They’ll not sell in Hardiston,” said Wint. He was a little tired of this. “Looks to me as though Amos has stopped to talk politics, after all. Did you tell him I was coming?” “Oh, yes,” she assured him. “He’ll be right home.” She got up abruptly. “There’s some lemonade in the dining room,” she said. “Would you like some?” “Every time,” he said. “It’s warm enough to make it taste pretty fine, to-night.” She came out with a tall pitcher and two glasses, and filled his glass and her own. They lifted the glasses together, and Wint touched his to his lips. Then he took it down, and looked at it, and said: “Hello!” “What’s the matter?” she asked. “There’s a stick in this, isn’t there?” “Yes. I always put a little in. Peach brandy. I love it.” “Peach brandy, eh?” “Yes. Don’t you like it?” “Well, I’ve been letting it alone lately I guess I’ll not.” “Oh, don’t be silly, Wint,” she protested, and stamped her foot at him. “I guess a little brandy won’t hurt you!” “No, probably not,” Wint agreed. “But I’m on the wagon, you see.” “You make me feel as though I’d done something wrong to offer it to you.” “Why, no. Only, I....” They were so interested that neither of them had heard Amos, and neither of them had seen him stop by the gate for a moment, listening to what they said. But when the gate opened, Agnes saw him, and the sight silenced her. Amos came heavily toward the house, and Agnes called to him: “Wint’s here, dad.” Amos said: “Oh! Hello, Wint!” Wint said “Good evening.” Amos was up on the porch by this time, and seemed to discover the lemonade. “Hello, there,” he exclaimed. “That looks pretty good. I’m hot. Pour me a glass, Agnes.” She hesitated; and Wint said: “Take mine.” “What’s the matter with it?” Amos asked good-naturedly. “Poisoned?” He lifted the glass to his nose. “Oh, brandy, eh? Well, got anything against that?” “Oh, I’m on the wagon, myself, that’s all.” Amos nodded. “Well, I never touch it. Not lately. Take it away, Agnes.” His voice was gentle enough; but Wint thought the girl seemed very white and frightened as she faced her father. She took pitcher and glasses and went swiftly into the house. Amos turned to Wint, and sat down, and asked cheerfully: “Well, young fellow, what’s on your mind?”