He had a vague terror of this false position in which the family was placed. He knew, with suddenly awakened forecast, that the antagonism to Jerry Binwell would not end here. Old Corbin’s spleen that might once have passed for naught was now rendered a valid and righteous anger in public opinion, and he would have the sympathy and aid of all the country-side. But how or why, in the name of justice, could it include his father and his blind uncle, who had done naught after all but feed the hungry, and forgive the enemy, and house the roofless vagrant. He lingered for a time after old Corbin had gone to Sawyer’s house to get “a bite an’ rest his bones,” listening to the younger men discuss the incident, and comment on Binwell’s strength. When Ike at last rose and started, Skimpy started too. “Skimp!” called the storekeeper after him, “yer mam’s got suthin’ fur ye to do at the house. Go thar!” Skimpy obediently turned from the road into the by-path and Ike went on, his heart swelling with indignation and his eyes hot with tears. He knew that his friend was to be withheld from his association after this, lest he might come under the influence of so worthless and injurious an example as Jerry Binwell. He trudged along home, wishing that his father might have beheld the scene and wondering if that would have urged him to take some decided action in the case. Ike had an odd indisposition to relate it all. He had been trained in a maxim,—good enough so far as it goes,—“If you can’t say anything kind of your neighbor, say nothing.” The only manifestation of his opinion was expressed in deeds, not in words. His mother had looked sharply at him from time to time during the past week, and this afternoon, as she opened suddenly the shed-room door and saw him casting down a great pile of bark, and chips, and sticks of wood, ready for the morning fires, she said unexpectedly: “Ike, ain’t ye ailin’ nowhar?” “Naw’m,” he replied, drawing himself up with stalwart pride, “I feel ez solid an’ sound ez a rock.” “I ’lowed ye mus’ be sick—ye ’pear so sober-faced, an’ occupy yerself no ways sca’cely, ’cept in workin’—tendin’ on the wood-pile, an’ packin’ the water, an’ drivin’ the cow-critter. I ain’t hed ez much wood hyar ter burn, nor water ter cook with, nor the cow ez constant at the bars, fur ten year.” Ike turned and glanced reflectively about him. The mountain, gorgeous in autumnal array, loomed above; a blue sky looked pensively down; some aerial craft had spread a cloud-sail, and the wind was fair. “I never ’lowed ter feel sech pleasure in a wood-pile,” he said, meditatively. “I hev made up my mind ez I ain’t a-goin’ ter ondertake to be a shirk in this world.”