“I’ll admit I’ve done very little; but you, yourself.”

“Never mind me.  What do you care for me?  What does anybody care?”

“Your mother, at least.”

“Yes, mother; poor, dear mother....  Oh, my God, I can’t stand it, I can’t stand it!” With a sob she broke and sank down by the table, hiding her face in her arms.  Dorian arose to go to her.  The door opened, and the mother appeared.

“What is it, Carlia,” she asked in alarm.

The girl raised her head, swiftly dashed the tears from her eyes, then with a sad effort to smile, said: 

“Nothing, mother, nothing at all.  I’m going to bed.  Where’s father?”

“He was called out to Uncle Zed’s who is sick.  Dorian’s mother is there with him too, I understand.”

“Then I’d better go for her,” said the young man.  “I’ll say goodnight.  Poor Uncle Zed; he hasn’t been well lately.  Goodnight Sister Duke, goodnight Carlia.”

Carlia stood in the doorway leading to the stairs.  “Goodnight, Dorian,” she said.  “Forgive me for being so rude.”

He stepped toward her, but she motioned him back, and than ran up the carpetless stairs to her room.  Dorian went out in the night.  With a heavy heart he hurried down the road in the direction of Uncle Zed’s home.

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

Uncle Zed’s illness did not prove fatal, though it was serious enough.  In a few days he was up and about again, slowly, quietly providing for his simple needs.  However, it was plainly evident that he had nearly come to the end of his earthly pilgrimage.

After the most pressing fall work had been disposed of, Dorian spent as much of his spare time as possible with the old man, who seemed to like the company of the younger man better than anyone else in the village; and Dorian, for his part, took delight in visiting with him, in helping him with the heaviest of his not heavy chores.  Especially, was it pleasant during the lengthening evening with a small fire and the lamp newly trimmed.  Uncle Zed reclined in his easy chair, while Dorian sat by the table with books and papers.  Their conversations ranged from flower gardens to dry-farms, and from agnosticism to the highest degrees of the celestial glory.  And how they both reveled in books and their contents on the occasions when they were alone and unhampered by the unsympathetic minds of others.

“As you see, Dorian,” said Uncle Zed on one such Sunday evening, “my collection of books is not large, but they are such that I can read and read again.”

“Where is your ’Drummond’s Natural Law’?” asked Dorian.

Uncle Zed looked about.  “I was reading it this morning.  There it is on the window.”  Dorian fetched him the volume.

“When I read Drummond’s work,” continued the old man, “I feel keener than ever my lack of scientific knowledge.  I have always had a desire to delve into nature’s laws through the doors of botany, zoology, mineralogy, chemistry, and all the other sciences.  I have obtained a smattering only through my reading.  I realize that the great ocean of truth is yet before me who am now an old man and can never hope in this life to explore much further.”