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Betty, not interested in intricate relationships, tiptoed into the parlor and uncovering the organ, played with one finger “Home Sweet Home.” The wool-embroidered motto on the wall almost wept. Was there to be another murder? Ought he to call? If he did wouldn’t they turn on him—kill him? No matter. Some one might be on the road and hear. And he could run pretty fast. Anyway he must risk it. Moses was whistling a dismal discordant air in the backyard when the voice of his mother smote his ears..

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“That boy’ll sartinly spill the tea,” prophecied Mrs. Wopp, with laughing pessimism. “I’m chored from mornin’ till night, an’ arfter I go to sleep I do some more chorin’ jist to keep my hand in.” Moses was in a distinctly peevish mood. The broad shaft of sunlight that flooded the dining-room where Nell Gordon sat was suddenly darkened. Looking up she saw the tall straight figure of Howard Eliot at the doorway. A tall, lean, loose-jointed, large-limbed man was enjoying the frosty air and walked briskly humming a gay tune. All at once he found his face upturned to the glorious blue sky and a youthful voice reached his ear, “Did you see the telegraph pole sail over that icy spot?” Then another voice equally youthful, but with a distinct absence of city polish, answered, “Betcher life I seen him, wouldn’t of missed it fer a punkin pie, he’s lookin’ fer gopher holes in the ground yet.”.