he nature which they inherited through
him from Adam, like a heap of tinder, waiting for the fire. It was
his duty to keep the fire from touching them, to guard them from the
flame, even the spark, of worldliness. He gave thanks for his poverty
which was like a wall about them. He prayed every night that no
descendant of his might ever be rich. He was grateful for the
seclusion and plainness of the village of Glendour in which vice
certainly did not glitter.

"Separate from the world," he said to himself often; "that is a great
mercy. No doubt there is evil here, as everywhere; but it is not
gilded, it is not attractive. For my children's sake I am glad to live
in obscurity, to keep them separate from the world."

But they were not conscious of any oppressive sense of separation as
they walked homeward, through the saffron after-glow deepening into
crimson and violet. The world looked near to them, and very great and
beautiful, tingling with life even through its winter dress. The keen
air, the crisp snow beneath their feet, the quivering stars that
seemed to hang among the branches of the leafless trees, all gave them
joy. They were healthily tired and heartily hungry; a good supper was
just ahead of them, and beyond that a long life full of wonderful
possibilities; and they were very glad to be alive. The two older
children walked side by side pulling the sled with Ruth, who was
willing to confess that she was "just a little mite tired" now that
the fun was over.

"Esther," said the boy, "what do you suppose makes father so quiet and
solemn lately--more than usual? Has anything happened, or is it just
thinking?"

"Well," said the girl, who had a touch of the gentle tease in her,
"perhaps it is just the left-over sadness from finding out that you'd
been smoking!"

"Huh," murmured Dan, "you drop that, Essie! That was two weeks
ago--besides, he didn't find out; I told him; and I took my medicine,
too--never flinched. That's all over. More likely he remembers the
fuss you made about not being let to go with the Slocums to see the
theatre in Pittsburgh. You cried, baby! I didn't."

The boy rubbed the back of his hand reminiscently against the leg of
his trousers, and Esther was sorry she had reminded him of a painful
subject.

"Anyway," she said, "you had the best of it. I'd rather have gone, and
told him about it, and taken a whipping afterward."

"What stuff! You know dad wouldn't whip a girl--not to save her