ungry, though he hadn't been to bed. He
set, with his hands in his pockets, and looked out at Wisner's brick
wall; and says he to me:

"This here is going to be a changed ward. I ain't in no man's vest
pocket. I ain't done yet. This is just the beginning. But where's the
kid, Curly?"

I went and found her. William was still hid somewhere--the night's
doings had grieved him plenty. She come in and set down by her pa.

"Well, sis," says he, "you see your dad is getting some of them Better
Things we come to Chicago after."

"Dad," says she, pushing back a little way from him and looking into his
face, "tell me something."

"What is it, Honey?"

"The truth now--the truth."

"Yes, Honey."

"Did you sell out the Circle Arrow and come to town on account of me?"

He didn't speak at first.

"Yes, I did, Honey," says he at last. "I said I'd tell you the truth.
That was why we sold the old ranch--so as you could come here. I wanted
you to go as high as any American woman could go. We educated you for
that--we brought you up for it, Curly and me."

"We didn't win, did we, dad?" says she, slow like. "How is it done,
dad?"

"Gawd knows," he says. "Tell me, sis, if we pulled out of here and went
to some other town, would you be better? How about Kansas City?"

"No," says she. "Our feet ain't headed that way. I won't quit, dad."

"You'll break your heart first, and your dad's?"

"Yes, if necessary."

"All to break into them sepulchers?"

"No," says she; "there's a lot of things worth while more than that.
These brick-and-stone houses are the trenches. They may be hard to take.
But back of them lies the country, and it's the country that's worth
while. You found it--over on the other side of the ward. For me--don't
mind if I haven't found it just yet."

"Ain't you happy, sis?" says he.

"No," says she, quiet like; "I'm not."

He pats her on the back.

"Get out of doors," says he. "Do something--work at something! Look
upwards and outside, and don't get to looking inwards," says he. "That
ain't the way. Think what's in the fields beyond."

"Life, dad," says she, slow; and it seemed to me like she was sad.
"Life!"

"Life?" says he. "Sis, what do you mean? Tell your old dad, can't you?"

She told him, then. She put her haid down on his neck.

"Oh," says she, "it's all right for you two--you've got something to
do--you can work and fight; but what can I do? What is there for me to
do in all the world? And y