ched his place among the hills, and the good
white letters under the thatch showed clear to his eyes. Pulling himself
together he drove with an air about the gable and into the wide open
yard at the back, fowls clearing out of his way, a sheep-dog coming to
welcome him, a calf mewing mournfully over the half-door of a stable.
Festus Clasby was soothed by this homely, this worshipful, environment,
and got off the cart with a sigh. Inside the kitchen he could hear the
faithful women trotting about preparing the great master's meal. He made
ready to carry the provisions into the shop. When he unwrapped the
sacking from the bacon, something like a sudden stab went through his
breast. Perspiration came out on his forehead. Several large long slices
had been cut off in jagged slashes from the flitches. They lay like
wounded things on the body of the cart. He pulled down the other
purchases feverishly, horror in his face. How many loaves had been torn
off his batch of bread? Where were all the packets of tea and sugar, the
currants and raisins, the flour, the tobacco, the cream-of-tartar, the
caraway seeds, the nutmeg, the lemon peel, the hair oil, the--

Festus Clasby wiped the perspiration from his forehead. He stumbled out
of the yard, sat up on a ditch, and looked across the silent, peaceful,
innocent country. How good it was! How lovely were the beasts grazing,
fattening, in the fields! His soft velvety eyes were suddenly flooded
with a bitter emotion and he wept.

The loaves of bread were under the shawl of the woman who had supported
Festus Clasby when he stumbled; the bacon was under another bright
shawl; the tobacco and flour fell to the lot of her whose yellow breast
showed the play of much sun and many winds; the tea and sugar and the
nutmeg and caraway seeds were under the wing of the wife of the Son of
the Bard in the Can with the Diamond Notch.

BOTH SIDES OF THE POND

I

Mrs. Donohoe marked the clearness of the sky, the number and brightness
of the stars.

"There will be a share of frost to-night, Denis," she said.

Denis Donohoe, her son, adjusted a primitive bolt on the stable door,
then sniffed at the air, his broad nostrils quivering sensitively as he
raised his head.

"There is ice in the wind," he said.

"Make a start with the turf to the market to-morrow," his mother
advised. "People in town will be wanting fires now."

Denis Donohoe walked over to the dim stack of brown turf piled at