nture I'm as proud of my
Scotch forefathers as you are of the Duke of York's shield-bearer, though
we haven't any coat-of-arms, and never did have any, I guess. Only back
there you think it's a necessity to have a good ancestry, and out here we
just consider it a help. I like what Burns said about a man being just a
man. That's the way we feel out here. It isn't what you come from; it's
what you _are_, and what you can do. Family mottoes are all right, if you
live up to them. I knew a fellow at school when I was East two years ago.
He roomed with me. He had the family coat-of-arms framed and hung on the
wall. 'Twas all red and silver, and the motto was '_Ne cede
malis_'--'Yield not to difficulties.' The funny part was that he was the
biggest quitter in school. You see, I think it's you who have to uphold
the motto--not the motto that has to uphold you."

Priscilla ate a cookie silently. She wished Donald were not so
convincing.

"For instance," Donald continued, "suppose _Courage is my heritage_ were
Vivian's family motto. Do you think that fact would give Vivian an extra
amount of courage if she said it over a thousand times? I don't. All the
courage Vivian's got she's gained for herself without any motto to help
her out. And I guess that's the way with most of us in this world."

He took his hat and rose to go.

"I've got to be making for home," he said. "Dave's gone, and I've an extra
amount of work to do. Thanks awfully for the cookies, and don't think I'm
too hard on the family motto business. I can see where your motto means a
heap to you, but you're not a quitter anyway, Priscilla."

He jumped on MacDuff and rode down the lane with a final wave of his hat
as he galloped homeward across the prairie. Priscilla's cheeks grew red
as she watched him. She was not any too sure that she was not a quitter.
Disturbing memories came to trouble her--memories of occasions when she
had not proven the truth of the motto, which had fired her ancestors.
Donald was right, too, about ancestry and coats-of-arms and mottoes being
only helps. Her New England conscience told her that, and her weeks in
Wyoming corroborated her conscience. Still she was averse to admitting
it--even to Donald.

She returned to her unfinished letter, but Genius seemed on a vacation.
She could not picture the Emperor to Miss Wallace--could not give the
impression which he had indelibly stamped upon her memory as he stood
between Nero and Trajan at the