It sounded--uncommon,
and so we used the expression." Suddenly she scrambled to her feet in
undignified haste, and shook a small, clenched fist in her sister's
direction. "Kate Seton," she cried, "you're a fraud. An
unmitigated--fraud. Yes, you are. Don't glare at me. 'Live' men!
Adventure! Poof! You're as tame as any village cat, and just
as--dozy."

Kate had risen, too. She was not glaring. She was laughing. Her dark,
handsome face was alight with merriment at her sister's characteristic
attack. She loved her irresponsible chatter, just as she loved the
loyal heart that beat within the girl's slight, shapely body. Now she
came over and laid a caressing hand upon the girl's shoulder. In a
moment it dropped to the slim waist about which her arm was quickly
placed.

"I wish I could get cross with you, Helen," she said happily. "But I
simply--can't. You know you get very near the mark in your funny
fashion--in some things. Say, I wonder. Do you know we have more than
our original capital in the bank? Our farm is a flourishing concern.
We employ labor. Two creatures that call themselves men, and who
possess the characters of--hogs, or tigers, or something pretty
dreadful. We can afford to buy our clothes direct from New York or
Montreal. Think of that. Isn't that due to independence? I admit the
villagy business. I seem to love Rocky Springs. It's such a whited
sepulcher, and its inhabitants are such blackguards with great big
hearts. Yes, I love even the unconventional conventions of the place.
But the spirit of adventure. Well, somehow I don't think that has
really gone."

"Just got mired--among the cabbages," said Helen, slyly. Then she
released herself from her sister's embrace and stood off at arm's
length, assuming an absurdly accusing air. "But wait a moment, Kate
Seton. This is all wrong. I'm making the charge, and you're doing all
the talking. There's no defense in the case. You've--you've just got
to listen, and--accept the sentence. Guess this isn't a court of
men--just women. Now, we're man-hunters. That's how we started, and
that's what I am--still. We've been five years at it, with what
result? I'll just tell you. I've been proposed to by everything
available in trousers in the village--generally when the 'thing' is
drunk. The only objects that haven't asked me to marry are our two
hired men, Nick and Pete, and that's only because their wages aren't
sufficient to get them drunk enough. As for you, most