"Teachin' 's worse than preachin'"--Adelaide's new, or, rather, revived democracy was an aspiration rather than an actuality, was--as to the part above the soil, at least--a not very vigorous looking forced growth through sordid necessity. In this respect it was like many, perhaps most, human aspirations--and, like them, it was far more likely to wither than to flourish. "Teachin' 's worse than preachin'"--Del began to slip dismally down from the height to which Arthur's tactless outburst had blown her. Down, and down, and down, like a punctured balloon--gently, but steadily, dishearteningly. She was ashamed of herself, as ashamed as any reader of these chronicles is for her--any reader with one standard for judging other people and another for judging himself. To the credit of her character must be set down her shame at her snobbishness. The snobbishness itself should not be set down to her discredit, but should be charged up to that class feeling, as old as property, and fostered and developed by almost every familiar fact in our daily environment. "I shouldn't be surprised but your father'd be glad, if he knew," her mother was saying. "But it's no use to risk telling him. A shock might--might make him worse." She started up. "I must go to him. I came to send you, while I was looking after Mary and the dinner, and I clean forgot." She hurried away. Adelaide sat thinking, more and more forlorn, though not a whit less determined. "I ought to admire him more than I did Ross, and I ought to want to marry him--and I _will_!" The birds had stopped singing in the noonday heat. The breeze had died down. Outdoors, in the house, there was not a sound. She felt as if she must not, could not breathe. The silence, like a stealthy hand, lifted her from her chair, drew her tiptoeing and breathless toward the room in which her father was sitting. She paused at its threshold, looked. There was Hiram, in his chair by the window, bolt upright, eyes open and gazing into the infinite. Beside that statue of the peace eternal knelt Ellen, a worn, wan, shrunken figure, the hands clasped, the eyes closed, the lips moving. "Mother! Mother!" cried Del. Her mother did not hear. She was moaning, "I believe, Lord, I believe! Help Thou my unbelief!" CHAPTER X "THROUGH LOVE FOR MY CHILDREN"