"Oh, lots;" Nancy flopped, rather than sat, on the grass. "I can't keep
on goin' to school! I can't do these sums a-tall! Pappy's drunk again,
an' throwin' things around the house just awful. He can't mortgage the
farm for any more, an' the storekeeper in town says he's goin' to sue
him for what he owes, an' he's got drunk to forget it, I reckon. I can't
work out this old thing in long division, anyway, Miss Jane, let alone
when he's throwin' things!"

Most of this story had often before been poured into the teacher's
sympathetic ears.

"You must have more grit than that," she said, patting one of the girl's
hands. "You know I'll stand by you, and you know you're doing very
nicely!"

"I reckon I ought to know," Nancy sighed. "But, honest, Miss Jane, I've
used up enough grit for a flock of dominick hens! There isn't any more
left on our place!"

Jane laughed. "If I'm not terribly mistaken in the girl, you'll find
another supply before getting home."

"I reckon you're awful mistaken, then," she sighed dolefully. "I've just
plain got to the end of the pile. It's hard, Miss Jane, honest it is,
with Pappy cussin' an' drunk, an' barely enough to eat, an' not decent
clothes to wear! His mealy-mouthed wife stands for it, but I don't, an'
that makes things all the hotter. I'm tired of it! Why, I could have
everything I want if--if--"

"If what?" Jane quickly asked. She looked fixedly at the girl whose
face, suddenly crimson with blushes, made an effort to look calmly back.

"Oh, if nothin', I reckon," Nancy stammered.

"Sit over here nearer to me, Nan," Jane said after awhile. "I'm lonely
myself today, and I've just heard something I want to tell you."

In no school could she have acquired that faculty for reaching one's
confidence, and this artfully expressed feeling of loneliness touched a
response in the girl's nature which she now frankly confessed by timidly
snuggling against Jane's knees.

"Poor, tired thing," Jane murmured, her fingers touching Nancy's hair.
"Do you sometimes fancy everyone unsympathetic?"

"Sort of," came a trembling little sigh.

Again the bees droned their drowsy lullaby. The song of the field hand
was hushed, but in its place was the smell of new turned earth that told
of a labor finished.

With every detail vividly drawn, she related the story of the blind girl
in a remote wilderness which had achieved the name of Sunlight Patch; of
what she had accomplished; of all she had given