of her all that was cool, restful, and refreshing. When he first had grown to care for her, it was because, like a child, he knew she would mother him. But now it was more than that. There was that curious fascination he had felt earlier, and which had since lain dormant, only to blossom now into lifeeager, impetuous life.

When "stooking" commenced, two more men had to be hired. One of them, Lars, to the astonishment of all, displayed a strong desire to "pal around" with the boy; he was at his side in the fields, at the barn, in the pasture ever anxious to lend a hand on occasion. The boy did not exactly fancy this forced companionship, but he raised no objections until Lars evidenced a disposal to continue his attentions after work. The latter was too thickheaded to see he was not welcome; the boy was wont, by stealth, to escape from the companionship the devoted Lars sought to thrust upon him.

One evening Cera was so late that the boy had all but given up hope of seeing her, when she arrived. Without waiting to be asked, she explained, her fists still clenched and her breath coming in quick gasps.

"I just beat that big Swede."
"Not Lars?"

"Yes."

"Why? What on earth did he do?” "He jumped on me when I go round barn. Grabbed me tight. I push him away, and we fight. I fixed him, though. I fixed him."

The boy sprang up wrathfully. "Just you wait, Cera," he cried. "I'll go fix him again!"

But the girl laughed and caught him to her. "You could not fix nobody. Do not you know that?"

"Yes, I could-I could!"

"No. And Cera wants you to stay here with her."

After this incident Lars ceased to have anything more to do with the boy, though he still continued to pester Cera with his devotion-at a respectful distance.

The threshers were to leave Saturday noon, but along about ten o'clock a rain, which had been threatening all

week, set in; so the crew, with but two hours' work left, settled down to a period of rest on the enforced hospitality of Mr. Samuels, a period which by all forecasts might lengthen into days.

The boy received his check for eighty dollars that night. He cashed it with the separator-man in order that he might pay his fellow-laborers a number of small sums, borrowed from time to time during the summer. When all were paid, he still had seventy-four dollars leftenough to take him home, and some to spare. The boss had promised to drive him into Drumley in the morning. Then, in the afternoon, he would catch a fast Canadian Pacific coast-train and in two days be home.

The evening was tedious. Already he was home again in fancy; brought back to reality, however, now and again by a loud guffaw from the threshers in the stalls below. It was so dreadfully tiresome. Nothing, absolutely nothing to do! It was too wet to go out; and if it had not been, he might not have gone. He hadn't told Cera that he was going, although he supposed she must know. When he thought of this a sense of shame and compunction came upon him. But his joy at the prospect of escaping from his surroundings was overwhelming, and dispelled such feelings.

On a sudden whim, he descended to the men below. They welcomed him noisily, with many side winks and grimaces. He had always been the butt of their ridicule, most of which, luckily, was behind his back; and he knew it.

He wanted to join in the conversation, but could think of nothing to say. Finally, a fellow suggested that they have a game. On the spur of the moment the boy spoke up:

"Yes, a game. Let's have a game.'
They stared at him in wonder.
"Well, what 'll it be?"

A quiet, sad-eyed man edged forward. "What dah yah want? 'Russian bank'?"

"No." He'd show these fellows he was some sport. "Let's have a game of poker." He had played that at the boarding-school, he and his mates.

The man grinned. "Boy, I think you'd better content yourself with 'Russian bank.""

"No, no.

What's the matter? 'Fraid

I'll rake in a little money?"
"All right, then; poker it is.
Jack? Yes, Jack, we'll use the keg.

Henry?

This was the first time the boy had ever played for money. It thrilled him. Now he was, in fact, a man! He was playing a man's game, and these fellows were treating him as an equal.

"It's too bad, kid; you sure had a run of bad luck. But you're a game little ol' sport, I must say. Ain't he, boys? Here, I don't want tah lay yah clear on the rocks, old man," and the sad-eyed one pushed back the boy's last fivedollar bill that had just gone to join all the others.

The boy sat tense. He'd lost his little all, every penny of it. But these men— these men that were now staring at him with almost admiration in their eyesthey must not know, must never know, what it cost-what it meant.

"Oh, that's all right. That's all right." He staggered to his feet, trying to laugh. "I-I'll get back at you some time."

"Sure yah will. Sure yah will!" It was quite late. Most of the men had gone to their blankets. Presently he was alone. He began to walk, first slowly, then faster and faster, up and down, up and down. What was he to do? What was he to do? If he went to the boss and told him, and begged― But he couldn't do that. Now now he could never go home. He'd have to stay here. He couldn't do that. He just couldn't do that. He'd rather die firstyes, anything but that which he knew now lay in store for him.

Several of the threshers had brought guns with them; prairie-chickens were plentiful. The unwholesome light of the dim lantern threw into flickering relief a yellow gun-case leaning against one of the cribs. The boy unstrapped it, took out the gun-a shot-gun-and fitted it. together. But he had no shells; the men's cartridge-belts and vests were in the loft, and he didn't want to go there. But he remembered having seen a box of shells in one of the feed-boxes. looked in several, finally found what he sought, and loaded both barrels.

He

It was so easy, now he was actually doing it. He half smiled. Funny, people should hate this sort of thing so. It was better, so much better, than living as some lived. He walked out into the night; some instinct made him seek solitude first. Habit led his steps to the haystack. It had cleared off in the last half-hour, but the moon was still struggling to shine through the companies of tattered clouds that the wind drove upon it.

As he walked around the stack, the moon shook free from its foes and shone bright and tranquil. Some one movedit was Cera who stood facing him. She must have been there a long time, for her clothes were damp, and clung about her in a strange transparency the moonlight gave them. She was no longer large in terms of flesh and blood; she was merely part of it all-the night, the moon, the cool, wet earth. She had but to will it, and the Whole, of which she was so utterly a part, would absorb her, engulf her. And before her, primitive child of the great mother, Nature, stood the school-bred weakling, product of the institutions and conventions which the hand and brain of man has fashioned.

So you want to stop your life." The girl looked fixedly at him. She did not ask a question; she stated a fact.

"How-how do you know?"

"How do I know! Don't talk like a fool. Talk what you mean, like a man."

"Cera, don't be mad. Let me alone! I-I've got to do it-got to, Cera. I lost it all, Cera, gambling-all my money. Now now I can't go home, I'll have to stay here. And I'd rather die. And I'm going to die. I've got to, Cera. Can't you 'see?"

"You no right to make yourself die." "No right! You don't know what you're talking about. I guess if I have a right to live I have a right to die, too, haven't I?"

"You have no right to stop your life." "And why, I should like to know? Did any one ask me if I wanted to live? No, I should say not. The first thing I knew, I was. No one consulted me. Surely I ought to have had something to say; and now I'm going to have my say. Somebody, Something put me into this thing called life without asking;

The clouds had veiled the moon and it had grown dark again before the girl answered: "But you kept on living when first you knew you lived. You took life from the Something that gave it. Now you want to give it back."

"Yes. Now you see my right. I'm merely returning what they gave me." "No, you are to return your gift." The girl's voice had gained that natural cadence with which she sang. It was now the voice of the wind-swept prairies -Nature admonishing the prodigal. "Is what you now wish to return the same as that which was given?" "No, of course not." "Is it better?" "N-o-o."

"Is it worse?" "Yes."

"Yes, it is worse. That which was given was good. It might have grown and become a great, great man. It might yet. That which was given was tiny, but strong. In time it would be brave and strong and good. Are you brave? Are you strong? Are you good? No, you have taken that which was given, and you have lived so far away from the Thing that gave it that you are weak. You have wronged it. You have dirtied it. Have you a right to give it back now, this way? Aren't you afraid, the way you are, to stop living?"

The moon once more shone full upon the glorified face of the girl, the inspired medium of the Thing, the Something, the Somebody, to whom the boy, in his despair, was about to cast himself back. After one look, he dropped to his knees; then fell forward, sobbing, prone in the hay.

In a moment the girl was over himjust Cera now, and only eager to comfort him. After a time he told her all. But in the midst of his story the girl interrupted him:

"Then you really want to leave Cera?"

"Oh, I just can't stay here. If I could

anything, to get money-why, I’d—”

The girl's rising stopped him.

"Come!" And without waiting for him to rise she dragged him to his feet and, one hand in his, led him across the hill, around the barn, to the lean-to. Here she left him to return in a moment with an old knitted mitten, which she thrust into his hand. "What?"

"Inside!" she ordered.

He felt gingerly. Inside was a rolla roll of bills! Lots of them!

"Cera, you don't mean you're giving this to me?"

"Yes," she answered, dully. "There is one hundred and sixty dollar. I have been working here 'most two years.' She did not tell him again that it was to train her voice she had been saving it. 'Cera, if I go home with this, it will be all right. Do you hear? Everything will be all right again. I can start school, and- But I shouldn't take it, should I?"

"I gave it to you."

"Cera, you're so good, so awfully, awfully good. I don't know what to do."

"Better start to-night; you might lose it again." For some reason she seemed to wish him to go forthwith.

"There is a train at six, isn't there? I believe I can walk it. It will only take three hours. But, Cera-”

"Yes?" She was leaving, but turned slowly toward him again.

"I-I hate to go like this. You-" But she had already left, and the closed door cut his stammering speech in half.

The boy stood there silent for a while; he wanted to call her back. Somehow it hurt, leaving like this. But he was actually leaving now; the thought cheered him.

Without stopping even to go back to the barn or to return the gun which he had entirely forgotten, he set off down the road, just as he was. Nine miles in front of him was Drumley-then, home. He was happy.