Jubal looked up in perplexity, his fat forehead wrinkling. "You ain't countin' in eatin', I s'pose?" he replied doubtfully. Nicholas shook his head. "No, leave out eating," he said. "An' the splittin' open of that durn livered Spike Turner?" "Yes, that too." Jubal whittled slowly, his forehead wrinkling more deeply. "Then I don't know whether it's to give ma a rest or to own Billy Flinders's coon dog, Boss," he said. Nicholas laughed for an instant, but the laugh softened into a smile. At the table he asked his stepmother and Sairy Jane about the spring chickens, and they answered with surprised eagerness. "I am going to mark the lambs to-morrow," he said. "They're a nice lot." And he added: "Some day I'll take the farm and make it pay." "I don't see what you want to go steppin' in yo' pa's shoes for," put in Marthy Burr. "When toes have got p'inted down-hill they ain't goin' no other way. Don't you come back to raisin' things on this land. I ain't never seen nothin' thrive on it yet, cep'n weeds, an' the Lord knows they warn't planted." Nicholas shook his head. "Why, look at Turner," he said. "His land is as poor as this, and he makes an easy living." "A Turner ain't a Burr," returned his stepmother with uncompromising logic, "an' a Burr ain't a Turner. Whar the blood runs the man follows, an' yours ain't runnin' towards the farm. Jeb Turner can fling a handful of corn in poor groun', an' thar'll come up a cornfield, an' yo' pa may plant with the sweat of his brow an' the groanin' of his spirit, an' the crows git it. A farmer's got to be born, same as a fool. You can't make a corn pone out of flour dough by the twistin' of it." "That's so," admitted Amos Burr, laying down his knife and meeting his wife's eyes. "That's so. You can't make a corn pone out of flour dough, noways you turn it." "Perhaps I'll try some day," said Nicholas with a laugh; and he rose and went out of the house. When he had reached the little gate he heard a voice behind him, and turned to find his half-sister Nannie, her cheeks flushed like a damp, wild rose above her faded dress. "I want you to bring me something from the store, Nick," she stammered. "I want a blue ribbon for my hair, it's--it's so worrisome." She shook her auburn locks, and Nicholas realised suddenly that she must be very good to look at--to men who were only in a Scriptural sense her brothers. He felt a vague pride in her. "Why, of course I will," he answered. "Blue let it be." And he opened the gate and went on his way, leaving Nannie, still flushed, in the path. When he took down Jerry Pollard's shutters a half-hour later he stood for an instant looking thoughtfully down upon the assortment in the window. Then he leaned over and conscientiously set upright a blue-glass vase before going behind the counter to unpin the curtains hanging across the dry-goods shelves.