Laying hands upon it with such heroic determination as never one of its flaunted hunters showed, she conveyed it to the kitchen and forthwith cremated it in the huge cooking stove. Then she returned to the back porch with an air that suggested that what she had just done to the book was intended as an illustration of what she would like to do to Ira himself. But Ira was not sufficiently sensitive to take note of this ghastly implication. “Yer recipe for makin’ currant wine was in that book,” was all he said. For a moment, Aunt Mira paused aghast. It seemed as if, in spite of her spectacular display, Ira had the better of her. He sat calmly smoking his pipe. “Why didn’t you call to me that it was there?” she demanded sharply. “You wouldn’t of believed me, I’m such a liar,” said Ira quietly. “I don’t want to hear no more of your talk, Iry,” said the distressed and rather baffled lady. “I don’t know as I mind losin’ the recipe. What I’m thinkin’ about is the hundred dollars that poor boy worked to get—and you went and lost for him.” She had subsided to the weeping stage now and she sat down in the old wooden armchair and lifted her gingham apron to her eyes and all Ira could see was her gray head shaking. Her anger and decisive action had used up all her strength and she was a touching enough spectacle now, as she sat there weeping silently, the string beans and the empty dishpan scattered on the porch floor at her feet. “He’s all right, aunty,” was all that Ira said. “I thank heavens he told the truth ’bout it least-ways,” Aunt Mira sobbed, pathetically groping for the dishpan. “I thank heavens he come back here like a little man and told the truth. I couldn’t of beared it if he’d just sneaked away and lied. He won’t lie to Henry—if he wouldn’t lie to me he won’t lie to Henry. I do hope Henry won’t be hard with him—I know he won’t lie to his father, ’tain’t him to do that. He was just tempted, he saw the deer and his head was full of all what you told him and that pesky book I hope the Lord will forgive me for ever buyin’. I’m goin’ to write to Henry this very night and tell him I burned up the book and prayed for forgiveness for you, Iry Hasbrook—I am.” Ira puffed his horrible pipe in silence for a few moments, and in that restful interval could be heard the sound of the bars being let down so that the cows might return to their pasture. The bell on one wayward cow sounded farther and farther off as Uncle Dick, all innocent of the little tragedy, drove the patient beasts into the upper meadow. The clanking bell reminded poor Aunt Mira to say, “You told him he couldn’t even shoot a cow, you did, Iry.” “He’s just about the best kid that ever was,” was all that Ira answered.