essed her daughter's companion, but always it was penetrated by the
timbre of a certain inflexibility.

The shadows grew deeper on the water, the glow-worms of lanterns
glimmered more sharply, and the softness of the night grew more
palpable.

"I guess I may as well go back, ma," said Mellony, rising.

"I was wonderin' when you cal'lated on going," remarked her mother, as
she rose too, more slowly and stiffly, and straightened her decent black
bonnet.

"I suppose you was afraid Mellony wouldn't get back safe without you
came after her," broke out Ira.

"I guess I can look after Mellony better than anybody else can, and I
count on doing it, and doing it right along," she replied.

"Come, ma," said Mellony, impatiently; but she waited a moment and let
her mother pass her, while she looked back at Ira, who stood, angry and
helpless, kicking at the rusted timbers.

"Are you coming, too, Ira?" she asked in a low voice.

"No," he exclaimed, "I ain't coming! I don't want to go along back with
your mother and you, as if we weren't old enough to be out by ourselves.
I might as well be handcuffed, and so might you! If you'll come round
with me the way we came, and let her go the way she came, I'll go with
you fast enough."

Mellony's eyes grew wet again, as she looked from him to her mother, and
again at him. Mrs. Pember had paused, also, and stood a little in
advance of them. Her stolidity showed no anxiety; she was too sure of
the result.

"No,"--Mellony's lips framed the words with an accustomed but grievous
patience,--"I can't to-night, Ira; I must go with ma."

"It's to-night that'll be the last chance there'll be, maybe," he
muttered, as he flung himself off in the other direction.

The two women walked together up the rough ascent, and turned into
Rosaly's Lane. Mellony walked wearily, her eyes down, the red feather,
in its uncurled, unlovely assertiveness, looking more like the oriflamme
of a forlorn hope than ever. But Mrs. Pember held herself erect, and as
if she were obliged carefully to repress what might have been the signs
of an ill-judged triumph.

Ira prolonged his walk beyond the limits of the little gray town, goaded
by the irritating pricks of resentment. He would bear it no longer, so
he told himself. Mellony could take him or leave him. He would be a
laughing-stock not another week, not another day. If Mellony would not
assert herself against her tyrannical old mother, he would go away and
le