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He sighed and turned to glance back at the cottage resting in the hardwood grove. It looked very homey, very restful to him, beneath its vines of clustering wild-grape and honeysuckle. It was home—home it must be always. And Mary loved it just as he loved it; this he knew. She was a fine woman, a great helpmate, a wonderful wife and mother. She was fair minded too. She loved Billy quite as much as she loved her own son, Anson. Billy must be more careful, more thoughtful of her comfort. He would have a heart to heart talk with his son, he told himself as he went on to the barn., "Is it re'lly?" she returned with sarcasm. "I wasn't sure. I thort maybe it was a fish-line, or a jack-knife. Now what do you think of your precious son?" she demanded., He became conscious that the droning hum of teachers and classes had given place to hushed calm; that all eyes were turned upon him, standing there in the aisle and staring at this picture of absolute perfection. With an effort he drew his eyes away and stumbled forward to his place in elass..