ding our love and speaking the wisdom of
childhood. Show me how a man treats women an' I'll tell ye what he
amounts to. There's the test that shows whether he's a man or a spaniel
dog."

There was a little moment of silence then--how well I remember it! The
schoolmaster broke the silence by adding:

"Well ye know, lad, I think the greatest thing that Jesus Christ did was
showing to a wicked world the sanctity o' motherhood."

That, I think, was the last lesson in the school year. Just beyond us I
could see the slant of Bowman's Hill. What an amount of pains they gave
those days to the building of character! It will seem curious and
perhaps even wearisome now, but it must show here if I am to hold the
mirror up to the time.

"I wonder why Kate is asking about me," I said.

"Never mind the reason. She is your friend and let us thank God for it.
Think how she came to yer help in the old barn an' say a thousand
prayers, my lad. I shall write to her to-day, and what shall I say as to
the work?"

"Well, I've been consulting the compass," I answered thoughtfully, as I
looked down at the yielding sand under my feet. "I think that I want to
be a lawyer."

"Good! I would have guessed it. I suppose your week in the court room
with the fine old judge and the lawyers settled that for ye."

"I think that it did."

"Well, the Senator is a lawyer, God prosper him, an' he has shown us
that the chief business o' the lawyer is to keep men out o' the law."

Having come to the first flight of the uplands, he left me with many a
kind word--how much they mean to a boy who is choosing his way with a
growing sense of loneliness!

I reached the warm welcome of our little home just in time for dinner.
They were expecting me and it was a regular company dinner--chicken pie
and strawberry shortcake.

"I wallered in the grass all the forenoon tryin' to git enough berries
for this celebration--ayes!--they ain't many of 'em turned yit," said
Aunt Deel. "No, sir--nothin' but pure cream on this cake. I ain't a
goin' to count the expense."

Uncle Peabody danced around the table and sang a stanza of the old
ballad, which I have forgotten, but which begins:

_Come, Philander, let us be a-marchin'._

How well I remember that hour with the doors open and the sun shining
brightly on the blossoming fields and the joy of man and bird and beast
in the return of summer and the talk about the late visit of Alma Jones
and Mr. and Mrs. Linco