t and came to the fire, patting her thin hair in
order and then stretching her small, blue-veined hands to the heat.

"Don't leg me, Peter Heathcote, I'm terrible ashamed of you. Terrible.
So long as you _have_ legs, brother--and you _have_!--I say use 'em.
Half the troubles in this world are _think troubles_, laid to legs and
backs and what not."

"Where you been?" Peter eyed the stern little face glowering at him.
"You look tuckered."

"I wasn't tuckered until I set my eyes on you, Peter. I've been
considerable set up to-day. I went to Mary-Clare's. She is mighty
heartening. She's gathered all the children she can get and she's
teaching them. She's mimicking the old doctor's plan--making him live
again, she calls it--and the Lord knows we need someone in the Forest
who doesn't set chewing his own troubles, but gets out and does
things!"

Peter winced and Polly rambled on:

"It's really wonderful the way that slip of a thing handles those
children. She has made the yellow house like a fairy story--evergreens,
red leaves and berries hanging about, and all the dogs with red-ribbon
collars. They look powerful foolish, but they don't look like poor
Ginger, who acts as if he was being smothered!"

Peter regarded the dog by his side and remarked sadly:

"I guess we better change this dog's name. Ginger is like an insult to
him. Ginger! Lord-a-mighty, there ain't no ginger left in him."

"Peter, you're all wrong. There are times when I think Ginger is more
gingery than ever. You don't have to dash around after yer tail to
prove yer ginger, the thinking part of you can be terrible nimble even
when yer bones stiffen up. Ginger does things, brother, that sometimes
makes my flesh creepy. Do you know what he does when he can get away
from you?"

"No." Peter's hair sprang up; his face reddened. Polly noted the good
signs and took heart.

"Why, he joins Mary-Clare's dogs and fetches the littlest children to
the yellow house. Carries lunch pails, pulls sleds, and I've seen that
little crippled tot of Jonas Mills' on Ginger's back. Ain't that
ginger fur yer? I tell you, Peter, it's you as ails that dog--he's
what you make him. I reckon the Lord, that isn't unmindful of
sparrows, takes notice of dogs." Then suddenly, Polly demanded:
"Peter, what is it, just?"

Polly drew her diminutive rocker to the stove and settled back against
its gay cretonne cushions--a vivid bird of Paradise flamed just where
her aching head rested