uietly to
Black Andy--for she had ever prayed to be master of the demon of temper
down deep in her, and she was praying now--

"She earnt her living by singing and dancing, and she's brought up
George's boy by it, and singing and dancing isn't a crime. David danced
before the Lord. I danced myself when I was a young girl, and before I
joined the church. 'Twas about the only pleasure I ever had; 'bout the
only one I like to remember. There's no difference to me 'twixt making
your feet handy and clever and full of music, and playing with your
fingers on the piano or on a melodeon at a meeting. As for singing, it's
God's gift; and many a time I wisht I had it. I'd have sung the blackness
out of your face and heart, Andy." She leaned back again and began to knit
very fast. "I'd like to hear Cassy sing, and see her dance, too."

Black Andy chuckled coarsely. "I often heard her sing and saw her dance
down at Lumley's before she took George away East. You wouldn't have
guessed she had consumption. She knocked the boys over down to Lumley's.
The first night at Lumley's done for George."

Black Andy's face showed no lightening of its gloom as he spoke, but there
was a firing-up of the black eyes, and the woman with the knitting felt
that--for whatever reason--he was purposely irritating his father.

"The devil was in her heels and in her tongue," Andy continued. "With her
big mouth, red hair, and little eyes she'd have made anybody laugh. I
laughed."

"You laughed!" snapped out his father, with a sneer.

Black Andy's eyes half closed with a morose look, then he went on: "Yes, I
laughed at Cassy. While she was out here at Lumley's getting cured,
accordin' to the doctor's orders, things seemed to get a move on in the
West. But it didn't suit professing Christians like you, dad." He jerked
his head toward the old man and drew the spittoon near with his feet.

"The West hasn't been any worse off since she left," snarled the old man.

"Well, she took George with her," grimly retorted Black Andy.

Abel Baragar's heart had been warmer toward his dead son George than to
any one else in the world. George had been as fair of face and hair as
Andrew was dark, as cheerful and amusing as Andrew was gloomy and
dispiriting, as agile and dexterous of mind and body as his brother was
slow and angular, as emotional and warm-hearted as the other was
phlegmatic and sour--or so it seemed to the father and to nearly all
others.

In those o