re
conscience than other men. He may keep it well sheathed, but after a
while the edge eats through the scabbard and cuts him. He works with an
object. They say it is to make money. That's true, but the money is to
serve a purpose, a heart, a conscience."

George turned about in his chair, and looked with keen interest at the
laboring man. "Look here, you are a man of brains. Why do you stay here
and dig? You are fitted for something better."

Milford smiled at him. "How often that's said of a man who's not fitted
for anything. As I remarked to your wife, I'm a crank. But I've got an
object--there's something that must be done, and I'm going to do it or
broil out my life in that field."

"You are a brave man. Not all of us are so nervy. But you may not have
to broil out your life."

"Hope," said Milford. "And what a muscle it is, hardening with each
stroke. Now, it's not my place to say anything to you, but don't fool
along with affairs that are hopelessly tangled. Strike at something
else. Perhaps that wasn't the business you were fitted for, anyway."

"Can't tell. But I wasn't stuck on it, that's a fact. What line have you
failed in, mostly?" he asked, laughing; and his wife's thin shoulders
shook as if she were seized with a sudden physical gladness.

"Oh I've been a sort of bounty jumper of occupations."

"But we know," said Mrs. Blakemore, "that your work was always honest."

"Well," he replied, his white teeth showing through the dark of his
beard, "I never squatted on the distress of an old soldier to discount
his pension."

"That's not bad. Louise," he added, playfully touching his wife's hand,
"how is it you took to me when you have a knack of finding such
interesting fellows?"

"Why, you were one of the most interesting fellows I ever found. Is that
Bobbie crying? Yes. I must go to him. Good-night, Mr. Milford. I'm ever
so glad you came over this evening." She gave him a grateful look, and
hastened away, crying out, "Mamma's coming," as she ran up the stairs.
And now Mrs. Stuvic's voice arose from the outlying darkness of the
road. "Well," she shouted at some one, "you tell him that if he ever
leaves my gate open again I'll fill his hide so full of shot he'll look
like a woodpecker'd pecked him. A man that's too lazy to shut a gate
ought to be made to wear a yoke like a breachy cow. Yes, you bet!" she
said over and again as she came toward the veranda. "Like a breachy cow.
And here's Bill, bigger t