married to a foreigner of considerable distinction."

"I've lived down in that part of the country," said a woman with a
lubberly cub in her arms, "and I know a family down there named Wilford.
They have a son named Alfred, and a daughter Julia who is about to be
married to a foreigner."

"Wilford, now let me see," mused the mother of the red boy. "Well, I
declare, I believe that is the name!"

"And that," said Milford, "is no doubt the reason, or at least one of
the reasons, why they are not kin to me."

"Oh, you keep still!" Mrs. Stuvic cried, snapping a smile in two. "You
didn't have to say that--but when you don't know what to say, Bill, say
the next best thing. Yes, you bet! Oh, I know a lot, but I don't tell it
all. People come here and think they can fool me, but they can't. Some
of them come a turnin' up their noses at the table, when I know as well
as I know anythin' that they haven't got half as good at home. We had
one family in particular that was always growlin'. And when they went
home in the fall I said to myself, 'I'll just slip into town one of these
days, and see what you've got to eat.' I did, and I never set down to
such a meal in my life--soup that looked like tea, and birds put on thin
pieces of burnt bread. But if you are through, Bill, come with me; I
want to show you somethin'."

She put on her bonnet, and as she stepped out told the Irish girl to
take Milford's bag upstairs. It was evident that her favorable
impression of him extended as far as a night's lodging. They crossed the
road, passed through a gate, so heavy on its hinges that it had to be
dragged open, and entered a grove of hickory trees. The sward was thick.
Here and there were patches of white and pink wild flowers. The sun was
going down, and the lake, seen through a gap in the trees, looked like a
prairie fire. They came to a broad lane shaded by wild-cherry trees.
Milford stopped.

"I've never seen anything more beautiful than this," he said.

"You just keep still!" she replied. "Yes, and I'll show you somethin'
worth lookin' at."

They passed through another gate, went up a graceful rise, into a field,
along a broad path hedged with vines and flowers. "Just look at this!"
she said. "There ain't better land in this county, and here it lies all
gone to waste. The men out here ain't worth the powder and lead it would
take to kill 'em. I've rented this farm half a dozen times in the last
three years. And what do they do? G