trenuous work of the barn.

"Why, Miss Hildy, I jes' hain't had time to clean up yit."

"_You_ haven't had time?" she echoed in more mystery. "That isn't
your work--it's Willie's." It was Ephraim's turn for mystery.

"Why, Miss Hildy, Willie told me more'n a week ago that you said fer
me to do _all_ the cleanin' up."

"Do you mean to say that you've been doing this work for over a week?
What's Willie been doing?"

"Not a lick--jes' settin' aroun' studyin' an' whistlin'."

St. Hilda went swiftly down the hill, herself in deep study, and she
summoned the Angel to the bar of her judgment. The Angel writhed and
wormed, but it was no use, and at last with smile, violet eyes, and
halo the Angel spoke the truth. Then a great light dawned for St. Hilda,
and she played its searching rays on the Angel's past and he spoke more
truth, leaving her gasping and aghast.

"Why--why did you say all that about your poor little brother?"

The Angel's answer was prompt. "Why, I figgered that you _couldn't_ ketch
Jeems Henery an' _wouldn't_ ketch me. An'," the Angel added dreamily, "it
come might' nigh bein' that-a-way if I just had----"

"You're a horrid, wicked little boy," St. Hilda cried, but the Angel
would not be perturbed, for he was a practical moralist.

"Jeems Henery," he called into space, "come hyeh!" And out of space
James Henry came, as though around the corner he had been waiting the
summons.

"Jeems Henery, who was the gamblin'est, cussin'est, lyin'est boy on Viper?"

"My big brother Bill!" shouted Jeems Henery proudly.

"Who stopped gamblin', cussin', an' lyin'?"

"My big brother Bill!"

"Who stopped all these young uns o' Miss Hildy's from cussin' an'
gamblin'?" And Jeems Henery shouted: "My big brother Bill!" The Angel,
well pleased, turned to St. Hilda.

"Thar now," he said triumphantly, and seeing that he had reduced St. Hilda
to helpless pulp he waved his hand.

"Git back to yo' work, Jeems Henery." But St. Hilda was not yet all pulp.

"Willie," she asked warily, "when did _you_ stop lying?"

"Why, jes' now!" There was in the Angel's face a trace of wonder at
St. Hilda's lack of understanding.

"How did James Henry know?" The mild wonder persisted.

"Jeems Henery knows _me_!" St. Hilda was all pulp now, but it was late
afternoon, and birds were singing in the woods, and her little people
were singing as they worked in fields; and her heart was full. She
spoke gently.

"Go on back to work, Will