think what else’d make you run off way here without your coat.  Come, get up, child, and go back to your work.  It’s too bad you don’t like to be kissed, but don’t let that worry you.  You’ll have lots worse than that to come up against.  When you’ve lived as long as I have and worked as hard, you’ll be pleased to have some one admire you.  You better wash your face, and eat a bite of lunch, and hustle back.  You needn’t be afraid.  If he’s fond of you, he won’t bother about your running away a little.  He’ll excuse you ef ’tis busy times, and not dock your pay neither.”

“Grandmother!” said Elizabeth.  “Don’t!  I can never go back to that awful place and that man.  I would rather go back to Montana.  I would rather be dead.”

“Hoity-toity!” said the easy-going grandmother, sitting down to her task, for she perceived some wholesome discipline was necessary.  “You can’t talk that way, Bess.  You got to go to your work.  We ain’t got money to keep you in idleness, and land knows where you’d get another place as good’s this one.  Ef you stay home all day, you might make him awful mad; and then it would be no use goin’ back, and you might lose Lizzie her place too.”

But, though the grandmother talked and argued and soothed by turns, Elizabeth was firm.  She would not go back.  She would never go back.  She would go to Montana if her grandmother said any more about it.

With a sigh at last Mrs. Brady gave up.  She had given up once before nearly twenty years ago.  Bessie, her oldest daughter, had a will like that, and tastes far above her station.  Mrs. Brady wondered where she got them.

“You’re fer all the world like yer ma,” she said as she thumped the clothes in the wash-tub.  “She was jest that way, when she would marry your pa.  She could ‘a’ had Jim Stokes, the groceryman, or Lodge, the milkman, or her choice of three railroad men, all of ’em doing well, and ready to let her walk over ’em; but she would have your pa, the drunken, good-for-nothing, slippery dude.  The only thing I’m surprised at was that he ever married her.  I never expected it.  I s’posed they’d run off, and he’d leave her when he got tired of her; but it seems he stuck to her.  It’s the only good thing he ever done, and I’m not sure but she’d ‘a’ been better off ef he hadn’t ‘a’ done that.”

“Grandmother!” Elizabeth’s face blazed.

“Yes, gran’mother!” snapped Mrs. Brady.  “It’s all true, and you might’s well face it.  He met her in church.  She used to go reg’lar.  Some boys used to come and set in the back seat behind the girls, and then go home with them.  They was all nice enough boys ’cept him.  I never had a bit a use fer him.  He belonged to the swells and the stuck-ups; and he knowed it, and presumed upon it.  He jest thought he could wind Bessie round his finger, and he did.  If he said, ‘Go,’ she went, no matter what I’d do.  So, when his ma found it out, she was hoppin’ mad.  She jest came driving round here to me house, and