omed to having people come at his convenience. It's his way
of doing things, I suppose."

"Then I don't like the way. This is Denboro, not New York. He will
expect me at any time after ten, will he? Well, as Mullet said to Alvin
Baker just now at the post-office, I hope he has lots of patience. He'll
need it."

"But what can he want of you?"

"I don't know. Wants to look over his nearest jay neighbor, I should
imagine, and see what sort of a curio he is. He thinks it may be
necessary to put up barbed wire fences, I suppose."

"Roscoe, don't be narrow-minded. Mr. Colton's ways aren't ours and we
must make allowances."

"Let him make a few, for a change."

"Aren't you going to see him?"

"No. At least not until I get good and ready."

Dorinda came in just then to ask Mother some questions concerning
dinner, for, though Mother had not seen the dining room since that day,
six years ago, when she was carried from it to her bedroom, she kept
her interest in household affairs and insisted on being consulted on all
questions of management and internal economy. I rose from my chair and
started toward the door.

"Are you going, Roscoe?" asked Mother.

"Yes."

"Where?"

"Oh, just out of doors; perhaps to the boat-house."

"Boy."

"Yes, Mother?"

"What is the matter? Something has gone wrong; I knew it as soon as you
came in. What is it?"

"Nothing. That is, nothing of any consequence. I'm a little out of sorts
to-day and that man's letter irritates me. I'll get over it. I'll be
back soon. Good-by, Mother."

"Good-by, Boy."

I went out through the dining room and kitchen, to the back yard, where,
seating myself on Lute's favorite resting place, the wash bench, I lit
my pipe and sat thinking, gloomily thinking.

CHAPTER III

It is a dreadful thing to hate one's own father; to hate him and be
unable to forgive him even though he is dead, although he paid for his
sin with his life. Death is said to pay all debts, but there are some
it cannot pay. To my father I owed my present ambitionless, idle,
good-for-nothing life, my mother's illness, years of disgrace, the loss
of a name--everything.

Paine was my mother's maiden name; she was christened Comfort Paine. My
own Christian name is Roscoe and my middle name is Paine. My other name,
the name I was born with, the name that Mother took when she married,
we dropped when the disgrace came upon us. It was honored and respected
once; now when it was repe