on the
day of each delivery.

I rose to go, bidding good-night to the old people. Rita came down to
the boat. Her face was anxious and she was searching mine for
something she feared to find.

"Poor little girl," I exclaimed, as I laid my hand on her head. "How
long has this been going on between your grandmother and grand-dad?"

Her eyes filled.

"Oh! George,--it ain't grandmother's fault. She'd give her soul if
grand-dad would only speak to her. It's killing her gradual, like a
dry rot."

"How long has it been going on?" I asked again.

"Oh!--long's I can remember; near about ten years. There was a quarrel
about something. Grandmother wanted to visit some one in Vancouver.
Grand-dad didn't want her to go. At last he swore by the Word of God
if she went he'd never speak to her again. Grandmother cried all
night, and next day she went. When she came back, grand-dad wouldn't
speak to her; and he ain't ever spoken to her since."

"My God!" I exclaimed with a shudder.

"That's why Joe ain't struck on staying at the ranch. Says it's like a
deaf and dumb asylum."

I didn't blame Joe.

Good God! I thought. What a life! What an existence for this poor
woman! What a hell on earth!

I became madly enraged at that dour old rascal, who would dare to sour
a home for ten years because of a vow made in a moment of temper.

If any one deserved to be stricken dumb forever, surely he was that
one! And saying a grace at the tea-table that would put a bishop to
scorn,--all on top of this: oh! the devilish hypocrisy of it!

Rita came close to me and laid her head lightly on my shoulder.

"Don't be cross at grand-dad, George. He's a mighty good grand-dad.
There ain't a better anywhere. In everything, but speaking to
grandmother, he's a good grand-dad."

I could not trust myself to say much. I climbed into the boat and made
to push off.

"A good grand-dad," I exclaimed bitterly; "good mule, you mean.

"Rita,--I know what would cure him."

"No!--you don't, George,--for you don't know grand-dad."

"Yes!--I know what would cure him, Rita."

"What?"

"A rope-end, well applied." And I pushed off.

She ran into the water up to her knees and caught hold of the stern of
my boat.

"You ain't mad with me, George," she cried anxiously.

"No, no! Rita. Poor little woman,--why should I be?"

She pouted.

"Thought maybe you was.

"Well,--if you ain't, won't you kiss me before you go, George?"

I