Mr. and Mrs. Raften met Yan at the station.  They had supper together at the tavern and drove him to their home, where they showed him into the big dining-room—­living-room—­kitchen.  Over behind the stove was a tall, awkward boy with carroty hair and small, dark eyes set much aslant in the saddest of faces.  Mrs. Raften said, “Come, Sam, and shake hands with Yan.”  Sam came sheepishly forward, shook hands in a flabby way, and said, in drawling tones, “How-do,” then retired behind the stove to gaze with melancholy soberness at Yan, whenever he could do so without being caught at it.  Mr. and Mrs. Raften were attending to various matters elsewhere, and Yan was left alone and miserable.  The idea of giving up college to go on a farm had been a hard one for him to accept, but he had sullenly bowed to his father’s command and then at length learned to like the prospect of getting away from Bonnerton into the country.  After all, it was but for a year, and it promised so much of joy.  Sunday-school left behind.  Church reduced to a minimum.  All his life outdoors, among fields and woods—­surely this spelled happiness; but now that he was really there, the abomination of desolation seemed sitting on all things and the evening was one of unalloyed misery.  He had nothing to tell of, but a cloud of black despair seemed to have settled for good on the world.  His mouth was pinching very hard and his eyes blinking to keep back the tears when Mrs. Raften came into the room.  She saw at a glance what was wrong.  “He’s homesick,” she said to her husband.  “He’ll be all right to-morrow,” and she took Yan by the hand and led him upstairs to bed.

Twenty minutes later she came to see if he was comfortable.  She tucked the clothes in around him, then, stooping down for a good-night kiss, she found his face wet with tears.  She put her arms about him for a moment, kissed him several times, and said, “Never mind, you will feel all right to-morrow,” then wisely left him alone.

Whence came that load of misery and horror, or whither it went, Yan never knew.  He saw it no more, and the next morning he began to interest himself in his new world.

William Raften had a number of farms all in fine order and clear of mortgages; and each year he added to his estates.  He was sober, shrewd, even cunning, hated by most of his neighbours because he was too clever for them and kept on getting richer.  His hard side was for the world and his soft side for his family.  Not that he was really soft in any respect.  He had had to fight his life-battle alone, beginning with nothing, and the many hard knocks had hardened him, but the few who knew him best could testify to the warm Irish heart that continued unchanged within him, albeit it was each year farther from the surface.  His manners, even in the house, were abrupt and masterful.  There was no mistaking his orders, and no excuse for not complying with them.  To his children when infants, and to his wife only, he was always tender, and those who saw him cold and grasping, overreaching the sharpers of the grain market, would scarcely have recognized the big, warm-hearted happy-looking father at home an hour later when he was playing horse with his baby daughter or awkwardly paying post-graduate court to his smiling wife.