as he saw Larry's discomfort. "That's
what keeps women from getting on--they shy! When all's said, a tight
rein is a woman's best good, but some women have to learn that."

Something in Larry burned hot and resentful, but whether it was
because of Maclin or Mary-Clare he could not tell, so he kept still.

"Let's turn in, anyway, for to-night, old boy." Maclin's voice sounded
paternal. "To-morrow is to-morrow and you'll feel able to tackle the
job after a night's sleep."

So they turned in and it was the afternoon of the next day when Larry
took his walk to the Point.

Just as he started forth Maclin gave him two or three suggestions.

"I'd offer to hire the shanty," he said. "That will put you in a safe
position, no matter how they look at it. An old woman by the name of
Peneluna thinks she owns it. There's an old codger down there, too,
Twombley they call him--he's smart as the devil, but you can't tell
which way he may leap. Try him out. Get him to take sides with you if
you can."

"I remember Twombley," Larry said. "Dad used to get a lot of fun out
of him in the old days. I haven't been on the Point since I was a
boy."

"It's a good thing you never troubled the Point, Rivers. They'll be
more stirred by you now."

"Maybe they'll kick me out."

"Never fear!" Maclin reassured him. "Not if you show good money and
play up to your old dad. He had everyone eating out of his hand, all
right."

So Larry, none too sure of himself, but more cheerful than he had
been, set forth.

Now there is one thing about the poor, wherever you find them--they
live out of doors when the weather permits. Given sunshine and soft
air, they promptly turn their backs on the sordid dens they call home
and take to the open. The day that Larry went to the Point was warm
and lovely, and all the Pointers, or nearly all of them, were in
evidence.

Jan-an was sweeping the steps of Peneluna's doorway, sweeping them
viciously, sending the dust flying. She was working off her state of
mind produced by the recent funeral of old Philander. She was
spiritually inarticulate, but her gropings were expressed in service
to them she loved and in violence to them she hated. As she swept she
was cleaning for Peneluna, and at the same time, sweeping to the winds
of heaven the memory of the dreadful minister who had said such
fearsome things about the dead who couldn't talk back. The man had
made Mary-Clare cry as she sat holding Peneluna's hard, cold