eeds men to load cars," announced Brian coming back, "and feed the
crusher. In quarry caste I imagine that's about at the bottom. The
shacks are furnished and four of them are empty. We can take our pick.
What do you say?"

"Whatever you say," said Don.

"Well," said Brian, "to tell you the truth, I have the keys."

The quarry, he fancied as he climbed the path to the cluster of shacks,
would solve his problem for him and when the time was ripe he would
have his say.

The time ripened with frost in the morning and a harvest moon at night;
and Brian had failed to have his say. A letter came from John Whitaker
definite in detail and a shade impatient. Why was he loitering when
God's green world of spring had turned to autumn? Was he still stale
and thinking wrong?

Brian set his lips to his task and spoke.

"Don," he said one night when the dishes were washed, the shack swept
and the lamp lighted, "I've been thinking a lot about you and what
you're going to do this winter."

The boy, who had been sparring with a kitten that had strayed into the
shack the day before, rose abruptly.

"You say you won't write to your sister until you've made good?"

"It isn't just that," stammered Donald, changing color. "I--I don't
dare. She'd beg me to come back--"

Brian nodded.

"Yes," he said. "I know the feeling."

"And I won't go back!" flung out Donald passionately. "I won't go
back. I simply can't."

"It's better," said Brian sensibly, "if you don't. For a number of
reasons. But you must do something. I mean something with the future
in view."

"Yes."

"As far as I can make out," went on Brian, puffing at his pipe, "you're
wildly unhappy and discontented at the farm and that worries your
sister. Of course your absence worries her too but the two letters we
wrote that night you tumbled into my camp fire must have made her feel
a lot better, particularly since we both expressed our intention of
making the best of ourselves. You say she won't leave your uncle
because he's an invalid. That leaves you without any string to your
bow but your own inclination. In a sense you've followed that too
long. I mean, Don, shirking the course of study the old minister
mapped out for you when your sister kept on plugging. You need it."

"Nothing mattered," said the boy bitterly. "I knew I wouldn't stay. I
didn't dare. Once," he added in a low voice, "when Uncle cursed my
sister and threw a bottle of brandy