“There is no use talking, Bet,” her brother pursued in an argumentative way, thoughtfully staring at the letter again. “There is no use talking. Joe has it right. We are vegetating here. Most people in towns like this, here in the East, might honestly be classified among the _flora_ rather than the _fauna_. We’re like rows of cabbages in a kitchen garden.” “Why, Ford!” He grinned up at her—a suddenly recalled grimace of his boyhood. “There speaks the cabbage, Bet! We’re all alike—or most of us are. Here in the old Commonwealth I mean. We’re afraid to step aside from the rutted path, to accept a new idea; really afraid to be and live out each his own individuality. “Ah! Out in this place Joe writes about——” He fingered the sheets of the letter again. She watched with the slow fading of all animation from her face—just as though a veil were drawn across it by invisible fingers. Her expression was not so much one of disapproval—her eyes held something entirely different in their depths. Was it fear? “This Canyon Pass is a real field for a man’s efforts,” burst out Hunt with sudden exasperation. “I tell you, Bet, I feel as though my usefulness here had evaporated. I haven’t a thing in common with these people. Carping criticism and little else confronts me whichever way I turn.” “You—you are nervous, Ford.” “Nerves! What right has a man like me with nerves?” he demanded hotly. “But, Ford—your work here?” “Is a failure. Oh, yes. I can see better than you do, Bet—more clearly—that I have lost my grip on these people.” “Surely there are other churches in the East that would welcome a man of your talents.” “Aye! Another little hard-baked community in which I shall find exactly the elements that have made my pastorate here a failure.” “You are not a failure!” she cried loyally. “That’s nice of you, Bet. You are a mighty good sister. But I am letting you in for a share of the very difficulties that would soon put gray in my hair and a stone in my bosom instead of a heart.” “Oh, Ford!” “Out there—in some place like this Joe writes about—would be a new and unplowed field. A place where a man could develop—grow, not vegetate.” “But—but must it necessarily be the West, Ford? I am not fond of the West.” “You’ve never seen it.” “I’m not fond of Western people.” He looked at her with a dawning smile. “You’re afraid of them, Bet.” “Yes. I am afraid of them,” whispered his sister, turning her face away from his gaze. “They are not our kind, Ford.”