There had been a time when Peter Greyson, a mere boy, to be sure--and before the cruel war had wrecked the fortunes of his family--had been surrounded by such women as Nella-Rose now suggested. Women with dancing eyes and soft, white hands. Women born and bred for love and homage, who demanded their privileges with charm and beauty. There had been one fascinating woman, a great-aunt of Nella-Rose's, who had imperilled the family honour by taking her heritage of worship with a high hand. Disregarding the rights of another, she boldly rode off with the man of her choice and left the reconstruction of her reputation to her kith and kin who roused instantly to action and lied, like ladies and gentlemen, when truth was impossible. Eventually they so toned down and polished the deed of the little social highwaywoman as to pass her on in the family history with an escutcheon shadowed only, rather than smirched. Nella-Rose, now that her father considered, was dangerously like her picturesque ancestress! The thought kept Peter from the still, back in the woods, for many a day. He, poor down-at-heel fellow, was as ready as any man of his line to protect women, especially his own, but he was sorely perplexed now. Was it Burke Lawson who, from his hiding place, was throwing a glamour over Nella-Rose? Then Peter grew ugly. The protection of women was one thing; ridding the community of an outlaw was another. Men knew how to deal with such matters and Greyson believed himself to be very much of a man. "Nella-Rose," he said one day as he smoked reflectively and listened to his younger daughter singing a camp meeting hymn in a peculiarly sweet little voice, "when my ship comes in, honey, I'm going to buy you a harp. A gold one." "I'd rather have a pink frock, father, and a real hat; I just naturally hate sunbonnets! I'd favour a feather on my hat--flowers fade right easy." "But harps is mighty elegant, Nella-Rose. Time was when your--aunts and--and grandmothers took to harps like they was their daily nourishment. Don't you ever forget that, Nella-Rose. Harps in families mean _blood_, and blood don't run out if you're careful of it." Nella-Rose laughed, but Marg, in the wash-house beyond, listened and--hated! No one connected _her_ with harps or blood, but she held, in her sullen heart and soul, the true elements of all that had gone into the making of the best Greysons. And as the winter advanced, Marg, worn in mind and body, was brought face to face with stern reality. Autumn was gone--though the languorous hours belied it. She must prepare. So she gathered her forces--her garden products that could be exchanged for necessities; the pork; the wool; all, all that could be spared, she must set in circulation. So she counted three dozen eggs and weighed ten pounds of pork and called Nella-Rose, who was driving her mad by singing and romping outside the kitchen door. "You--Nella-Rose!" she called, "are you plumb crazy?"