which dangled empty tin pails, destined, sooner or later, to be filled
with that peculiarly fine water of which Nathaniel Glenn was so proud.
Nathaniel Glenn never loved things in a human, tender fashion, but he was
proud of many things--proud that he, and his before him, had braved the
hardships of farming among the red, rocky hills of Kenmore instead of
wrenching a livelihood from the water. This capacity for tilling the soil
instead of gambling in fish had made of Glenn, and a few other men, the
real aristocracy of the place. Nathaniel's grandfather, with his wife and
fifteen children, had been the first white settlers of Kenmore. So eager
had the Indians been to have this first Glenn among them that it is said
they offered him any amount of land he chose to select, and Glenn had
taken only so much as would insure him a decent farm and prospects. This
act of restraint had further endeared him to the natives, and no regret
was ever known to follow the advent of the estimable gentleman.

The present Glenn never boasted; he had no need to; the plain statement
of fact was enough to secure his elevated position from mean attack.

Nathaniel had taught himself to read and write--a most unusual thing--and
naturally he was proud of that. He was proud of his stern, bleak religion
that left no doubt in his own mind of his perfect interpretation of
divine will. He was proud of his handsome wife--twenty years younger than
himself. Inwardly he was proud of that, within himself, which had been
capable of securing Theodora where other men had failed. Theodora had
caused him great disappointment, but Nathaniel was a just man and he
could not exactly see that his disappointment was due to any deliberate
or malicious act of Theodora's; it was only when his wife showed weak
tendencies toward making light of the matter that he hardened his heart.

In the face of his great desire and his modest aspirations--Theodora had
borne for him (that was the only way he looked at it) five children--all
girls, when she very well knew a son was the one thing, in the way of
offspring, that he had expected or wanted.

The first child was as dark as a little Indian, "so dark," explained
Nathaniel, "that she would have been welcome in any house on a New Year's
Day." She lasted but a year, and, while she was a regret, she had been
tolerated as an attempt, at least, in the right direction. Then came the
second girl, a soft, pale creature with ways that e