Poor little Ilda burst into wild sobs and choking explanations, clinging to Diantha's hand. “If I'd only listened to you!” she said. “You told me he was bad! I never thought he'd do such an awful thing!” Young Mathew fumbled at the door. He had locked it outside in his efforts with the pass-key. He was red, red to his ears--very red, but there was no escape. He faced them--there was no good in facing the door. They all stood aside and let him pass--a wordless gauntlet. Diantha took the weeping Ilda to her room for the night. Madam Weatherstone and Mrs. Weatherstone went down together. “She must have encouraged him!” the older lady finally burst forth. “She did not encourage him to enter her room, as you saw and heard,” said Viva with repressed intensity. “He's only a boy!” said his grandmother. “She is only a child, a helpless child, a foreigner, away from home, untaught, unprotected,” Viva answered swiftly; adding with quiet sarcasm--“Save for the shelter of the home!” They parted in silence. CHAPTER X. UNION HOUSE. “We are weak!” said the Sticks, and men broke them; “We are weak!” said the Threads, and were torn; Till new thoughts came and they spoke them; Till the Fagot and the Rope were born. For the Fagot men find is resistant, And they anchor on the Rope's taut length; Even grasshoppers combined, Are a force, the farmers find-- In union there is strength. Ross Warden endured his grocery business; strove with it, toiled at it, concentrated his scientific mind on alien tasks of financial calculation and practical psychology, but he liked it no better. He had no interest in business, no desire to make money, no skill in salesmanship. But there were five mouths at home; sweet affectionate feminine mouths no doubt, but requiring food. Also two in the kitchen, wider, and requiring more food. And there were five backs at home to be covered, to use the absurd metaphor--as if all one needed for clothing was a four foot patch. The amount and quality of the covering was an unceasing surprise to Ross, and he did not do justice to the fact that his womenfolk really saved a good deal by doing their own sewing. In his heart he longed always to be free of the whole hated load of tradesmanship. Continually his thoughts went back to the hope of selling out the business and buying a ranch. “I could make it keep us, anyhow,” he would plan to himself; “and I could get at that guinea pig idea. Or maybe hens would do.” He had a theory of his own, or a personal test of his own, rather, which he wished to apply to a well known theory. It would take some years to work it out, and a great many fine pigs, and be of no possible value financially. “I'll do it sometime,” he always concluded; which was cold comfort.