from the women of our valley. The last we knew as kindly, honest
persons with a faculty for twisting their English and a woful ignorance
of well-turned speeches. They never said "Fair Sir" nor "Master." But
I had gone from that book-world and had seen the women of the real
world. Here I had the advantage of my brother. Into his life a single
woman had come from the real world. She was different from the women
of our valley. I had known that the moment our eyes met, and by the
way Tim smoked now, and by the tone of his terse inquiry, I knew that
he had met a woman who had said "Fair Sir" to him, and I feared for
him. It was disturbing. I felt a twinge of jealousy, but whether for
the tall, strong young fellow before me, to whom I had been all, or for
the fair-faced girl, I could not for the life of me tell. It seemed to
be a bit of both.

"I remarked that she was attractive," said Tim aggressively, for I had
kept on smoking in silence.

"Rather," I answered carelessly. "But who is she--a stranger here?"

"Rather," repeated Tim hotly. "Well, you are blind. I suppose you
judged her by that ugly gray gown. You thought she was some pious
Dunkard."

"I am no enemy of piety," I retorted. "In fact, I hardly noticed her
clothes at all, except to think that their simplicity gave her a sort
of Priscilla air that was fetching."

Tim softened. "That's it exactly," he said. "But, Mark, you should
have seen Mary Warden when she came here."

"From where?" I asked.

"From Kansas. She lived in some big town out West, and when her mother
died there was no one left to her but Luther Warden, her uncle. He
sent for her, and now she is living with him. The old man sets a great
store by her."

Luther Warden is rich. He has accumulated a fine lot of property above
Six Stars--several good farms, a mill and a tannery; but even the
chance of inheriting all these did not seem fair compensation for being
his niece and having to live with him. He was good to a fault. He
exuded piety. Six days of the week he worked, piling up the passing
treasures of this world. One whole day he preached, striving for the
treasures in that to come. You could not lay a finger on a weak spot
in his moral armor, but Tip Pulsifer protected from the assaults of
Satan only by a shield of human skin, always seemed to me the better of
the two. Tip wore leaky boots all last winter, but when spring came he
bought Mrs. Pulsifer a sewing machi