There was something heroic in her cool acceptance of her hard life.  He was silent for a moment, and then he said:  “Would you have time to read my book to-night?”

“Oh, if I might,” she said eagerly, “but you haven’t it with you.”

“I will bring it,” he told her, “after supper.”

“But,” she protested.

“There are no ‘buts,’” he said, smiling; “if you will read it, I will get it to you.”

The sky had darkened, and, as he went toward home, he faced clouds in the southeast.

“It is going to rain,” Otto Brand prophesied as they sat down to supper.

The other three men hoped that it would not.  Already the ground was soaked, making the cutting of corn impossible, and another rain with a frost on top of it would spoil all chance of filling the silo.

Van Alen could not enter into their technical objections.  He hoped it would not rain, because he wanted to take a book to Mazie Wetherell, and he had not brought a rain-coat.

But it did rain, and he went without a rain-coat!

The house, as he neared it, showed no light, and under the thick canopy of the trees there was no sound but the drip, drip of the rain.  By feeling and instinct he found the front door, and knocked.

There was a movement inside, and then Mazie Wetherell asked softly:  “Who’s there?”

“I have brought the book.”

The bolt was withdrawn, and in the hall, scarcely lighted by the shaded lamp in the room beyond, stood the girl, in a loose gray gown, with braided shining hair—­a shadowy being, half-merged into the shadows.

“I thought you would not come,” in a hushed tone, “in such a storm.”

“I said I should come.  The book may help you through the long night.”

She caught her breath quickly.  “The child is awfully ill.”

“Are you afraid?  Let me stay.”

“Oh, no, no.  His mother is sleeping, and I shall have your book.”

She did not ask him in, and so he went away at once, beating his way back in the wind and rain, fording a little stream where the low foot-bridge was covered, reaching home soaking wet, but afire with dreams.

Otto Brand was waiting for him, a little curious as to what had taken him out so late, but, getting no satisfaction, he followed Van Alen up-stairs, and built a fire for him in the big bedroom.  And presently, in the light of the leaping flames, the roses on the canopy of the bed glowed pink.

“Ain’t you goin’ to sleep in the bed?” Otto asked, as he watched Van Alen arrange the covers on the couch.

“No,” said Van Alen shortly, “the honor is too great.  It might keep me awake.”

“My feet would hang over,” Otto said.  “Funny thing, wasn’t it, for a man to make a will like that?”

“I suppose every man has a right to do as he pleases,” Van Alen responded coldly.  He was not inclined to discuss the eccentricities of his little old ancestor with this young giant.