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 Solution Manual for Understanding Human
Resources Management A Canadian Perspective
by Peacock
Download full chapter at:
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Part I: Principles of Engaging Teaching

1. Student-Centred Learning
2. Deep Learning
3. Active Learning
4. Creating Positive Classroom Environments
5. Benefits, Challenges, and Suggestions for Engaging
Teaching

Copyright © 2011 by Nelson Education Limited

3 Copyright © 2011 by Nelson Education Limited3
 Student-Centred Learning

Education is not the filling of a pail, but the lighting of a fire.

—William Butler Yeats

Part I presents core principles for increasing student engagement, provides references to
the research supporting their effectiveness in improving student learning, and offers
some preliminary examples of how to apply these principles in the classroom.
Traditionally, postsecondary classroom environments have been based on teacher-
centred instruction focused primarily on transmission of content and knowledge in a method
described memorably by Fink (2003) as “an information dump” (p. xi). In such environments,
teachers “emphasize the learning of answers more than the exploration of questions,
memory at the expense of critical thought, bits and pieces of information instead of
understanding in context” (Hanley, 1994, p. 1). Too often, the traditional teacher-centred
classroom can be characterized as
a one-person show with a captive but often comatose audience. Classes are
usually driven by ‘teacher-talk’. Teachers serve as pipelines and seek to transfer
their thoughts and meaning to the passive student. (Hanley, 1994, p. 1)
In the traditional teacher-centred classroom, the instructor is the dominant gatekeeper,
controlling content and pace of delivery, transferring knowledge as the sage on the stage
(King,
1993); in this environment the students play a passive role, receiving, retaining,
retrieving, reflecting, and regurgitating the accepted explanation or methodology
expostulated by the instructor.
Student-centred instruction, on the other hand, manifests activities that engage
both instructors and students in an ongoing search for understanding, relevance, and
application of new knowledge. The literature is replete with rationales for and taxonomies
of student-centred learning (Krathwohl, Bloom, and Masia, 1973; Bok, 2006; Cox, 2006;
Davis, 1993; Fink, 2003; Gardner, 1983; Hein, 1991; King, 1993; Knowles, Holton &
Swanson, 1973; Kristensen, 2007; McKeachie & Svinicki, 2006; National Research
Council, 2003; Nilson, 2003; Royse, 2001; Staley, 2003).

Copyright © 2011 by Nelson Education Limited

4 Copyright © 2011 by Nelson Education Limited4
 In a student-centred environment, learning is an active process that involves
engagement and interaction with knowledge, where students “revisit ideas, ponder them,
try them out, play with them and use them” (Hein, 1991, p. 3). Student-centred
classrooms focus

Copyright © 2011 by Nelson Education Limited

5 Copyright © 2011 by Nelson Education Limited5
on the learner through active, interactive, and exploratory learning activities, through real-
life authentic problem solving, and often through social, collaborative activities in which
students and instructors use language to discuss, share, and seek understanding together.
The student-centred instructor, rather than being a sage on the stage, acts as a guide
on the side (King, 1993), performing the role of coach, mentor, and facilitator of learning;
providing students with support and encouragement; designing learning activities that
engage student interest; and asking challenging and provocative questions intended to
motivate students toward further inquiry and exploration of ideas. In von Glasersfeld’s
(1995b) memorable phrase, the student-centred instructor is “midwife in the birth of
understanding” (in Murphy, 1997, p.3).
Students in this learning environment are actively engaged, producing and
constructing their own interpretations and conclusions, exploring possibilities, collaborating
with others, creating multiple meanings and alternative solutions, learning how to learn and
how to apply their learning in situations beyond the classroom. Table 1 summarizes the
contrasting roles and expectations between these two perspectives, and indicates the
direction of increased student learning as instruction moves from teacher-centred to more
student-centred instruction.

Copyright © 2011 by Nelson Education Limited

6 Copyright © 2011 by Nelson Education Limited6
Table 1: Teacher-Centred versus Student-Centred Instruction
Teacher-Centred Instruction Student-Centred Instruction
Teacher Role: Teacher Role:
x Sage on the stage x Guide on the side
x Acts as gatekeeper, transmitter of x Acts as coach, facilitator, mentor
content
x Provides challenge, support, resources
x Controls content, pace, resources
x Acts as “midwife in birth of
x Predominantly lecture format and
understanding” (von Glasersfeld,
“teacher- talk” (Hanley)
1995b)
Student Role:
Student Role:
x Passive recipient reflecting
x Active participant, constructing
teacher’s knowledge
own knowledge
Learning Environment:
Learning Environment:
x Focus on transmission and acquisition
x Focus on interactive, exploratory
of content learning
x Often text based x Real-life problem solving
x Logical-sequential x Encourages multiple perspectives
x Common curriculum x Learning is a social, collaborative activity
x Standardized testing x Multiple formats for assessment
x Assessment of learning through demonstration of learning
x Assessment for learning

Increase in retention, higher-order thinking, participation, and engagement.

Copyright © 2011 by Nelson Education Limited

7 Copyright © 2011 by Nelson Education Limited7
 Deep Learning

To be caught up in the world of thought—that is being educated.

—Edith Hamilton, 1958 (as cited in Lewis, n.d.)

The goal of student-centred learning is to emphasize deep learning over surface learning.
The distinction between these two levels of learning provides another perspective on
improved student achievement (Angelo & Cross, 1993; Fink, 2003; Gibbs, 1993; King,
1993; Kristensen,
2007; Martin, Hounsell, and Entwistle, 1997; Pan, 1988). In surface learning, students
memorize required information and reproduce information presented throughout a course,
but discrete elements are not integrated, general principles do not emerge, and tasks often
lack relevance to students. Little of the knowledge or skills obtained via surface learning are
retained. By contrast, deep learning involves students interacting with content, examining the
logic of an argument, relating evidence to conclusions, and relating and applying new
learning to previous knowledge and everyday experience. Students engaged in deep
learning seek a personal, meaningful, applicable understanding of course material. In
contrast to surface learning, knowledge and
skills obtained via deep learning are usually retained and integrated into students’ world
views.
Surface learning may be appropriate in certain learning situations, but instructors
who wish to engage students more fully in the subject matter are well advised to design and
employ activities that promote deep learning. Fink (2003) and Gibbs (1993) suggest that
instructors can move students toward a deeper approach to learning through the following
methods:
x Develop students’ underlying concepts of learning.
x Provide time and opportunities for students to explore ideas.
x Make assessment demands explicit so that students know that only full
understanding (rather than simple knowledge retention) will be acceptable
as a learning outcome.
x Modify teaching methods to make learning more active and interactive.

Copyright © 2011 by Nelson Education Limited

8 Copyright © 2011 by Nelson Education Limited8
 Instructors may use activities that involve learning-by-doing, that employ problem-
based learning activities, that encourage group discussion and individual reflection, and that
foster generic learning skills in order to increase student engagement and achieve deeper
learning

Copyright © 2011 by Nelson Education Limited

9 Copyright © 2011 by Nelson Education Limited9
 Another Random Document on
Scribd Without Any Related Topics
 “I'm putting my life in your hands, Baker,” said Craig, and with an
unsteady hand he began to write.
“Hold on thar,” said Pole. “You 'll know the best way to write to
her, but when the money's mentioned I want you to say the twenty-
five thousand dollars deposited in the bank by the Bishops. You see
I'm not goin' to tote no order fer money I hain't no right to. An' I 'll
tell you another thing, old man, you needn't throw out no hint to her
to have me arrested. As God is my final judge, ef I'm tuck up fer
this, they 'll never make me tell whar you are. I'd wait until you'd
pegged out, anyway.”
“I'm not setting any trap for you, Baker,” whined Craig. “You've got
the longest head of any man I ever knew. You've got me in your
power, and all I can ask of you is my life. I've got Bishop's money
hidden in my house. I am willing to restore it, if you will release me.
I can write my wife a note that will cause her to give it to you. Isn't
that fair?”
“That's all I want,” said Pole; “an' I 'll say this to you, I 'll agree to
use my influence with Alan Bishop not to handle you by law; but the
best thing fer you an' yore family to do is to shake the dirt of Darley
off'n yore feet an' seek fresh pastures. These 'round heer ain't as
green, in one way, as some I've seed.”
Craig wrote the note and handed it up to Baker. Pole read it
slowly, and then said: “You mought 'a' axed 'er to excuse bad writin'
an' spellin', an' hopin' these few lines will find you enjoyin' the same
blessin' s; but ef it gits the boodle that's all I want. Now you keep
yore shirt on, an' don't git skeerd o' the darkness. It will be as black
as pitch, an' you kin heer yore eyelids creak after I shet the front
door, but I 'll be back—ef I find yore old lady hain't run off with a
handsomer man an' tuck the swag with 'er. I'm glad you cautioned
'er agin axin' me questions.”
Pole backed to the foot of the ladder, followed by Craig.
“Don't leave me here, Baker,” he said, imploringly. “Don't, for
God's sake! I swear I 'll go with you and get you the money.”
 “I can't do that, Mr. Craig; but I 'll be back as shore as fate, ef I
get that cash,” promised Pole. “It all depends on that. I 'll keep my
word, if you do yore'n.”
“I am going to trust you,” said the old man, with the pleading
intonation of a cowed and frightened child.
After he had gotten out, Pole thrust his head into the opening
again. “It 'll be like you to come up heer an' try to move this rock,”
he called out, “but you mought as well not try it, fer I'm goin' to add
about a dump-cart load o' rocks to it to keep the wolves from diggin'
you out.”
 XXVII

AYBURN MILLER and Alan spent that day on the river

trying to catch fish, but with no luck at all, returning empty-
handed to the farm-house for a late dinner. They passed the
afternoon at target-shooting on the lawn with rifles and
revolvers, ending the day by a reckless ride on their horses across
the fields, over fences and ditches, after the manner of fox-hunting,
a sport not often indulged in in that part of the country.
In the evening as they sat in the big sitting-room, smoking after-
supper cigars, accompanied by Abner Daniel, with his long, cane-
stemmed pipe, Mrs. Bishop came into the room, in her quiet way,
smoothing her apron with her delicate hands.
“Pole Baker's rid up an' hitched at the front gate,” she said. “Did
you send 'im to town fer anything, Alan?”
“No, mother,” replied her son. “I reckon he's come to get more
meat. Is father out there?”
“I think he's some'r's about the stable,” said Mrs. Bishop.
Miller laughed. “I guess Pole isn't the best pay in the world, is he?”
“Father never weighs or keeps account of anything he gets,” said
Alan. “They both make a guess at it, when cotton is sold. Father
calls it 'lumping' the thing, and usually Pole gets the lump. But he's
all right, and I wish we could do more for him. Father was really
thinking about helping him in some substantial way when the crash
came—”
“Thar!” broke in Daniel, with a gurgling laugh, “I've won my bet. I
bet to myse'f jest now that ten minutes wouldn't pass 'fore Craig an'
his bu'st-up would be mentioned.”
 “We have been at it, off and on, all day,” said Miller, with a low
laugh. “The truth is, it makes me madder than anything I ever
encountered.”
“Do you know why?” asked Abner, seriously, just as Pole Baker
came through the dining-room and leaned against the door-jamb
facing them. “It's beca'se”—nodding a greeting to Pole along with
the others—“it's beca'se you know in reason that he's got that
money.”
“Oh, I wouldn't say that,” protested Miller, in the tone of a man of
broad experience in worldly affairs. “I wouldn't say that.”
“Well, I would, an' do,” said Abner, in the full tone of decision. “I
know he's got it!”
“Well, yo' re wrong thar, Uncle Ab,” said Pole, striding forward and
sinking into a chair. “You've got as good jedgment as any man I ever
run across. I thought like you do once. I'd 'a' tuck my oath that he
had it about two hours by sun this evenin', but I kin swear he hain't
a cent of it now.”
“Do you mean that, Pole?” Abner stared across the wide hearth at
him fixedly.
“He hain't got it, Uncle Ab.” Pole was beginning to smile
mysteriously. “He did have it, but he hain't got it now. I got it from
'im, blast his ugly pictur'!”
“You got it?” gasped Daniel. “You?”
“Yes. I made up my mind he had it, an' it deviled me so much that
I determined to have it by hook or crook, ef it killed me, or put me
in hock the rest o' my life.” Pole rose and took a packet wrapped in
brown paper from under his rough coat and laid it on the table near
Alan. “God bless you, old boy,” he said, “thar's yore money! It's all
thar. I counted it. It's in fifties an' hundreds.”
Breathlessly, and with expanded eyes, Alan broke the string about
the packet and opened it.
“Great God!” he muttered.
 Miller sprang up and looked at the stack of bills, but said nothing.
Abner, leaning forward, uttered a little, low laugh.
“You—you didn't kill 'im, did you, Pole, old boy—you didn't, did
you?” he asked.
“Didn't harm a hair of his head,” said Pole. “All I wanted was Alan'
s money, an' thar it is!”
“Well,” grunted Daniel, “I'm glad you spared his life. And I thank
God you got the money.”
Miller was now hurriedly running over the bills.
“You say you counted it, Baker?” he said, pale with pleased
excitement.
“Three times; fust when it was turned over to me, an' twice on the
way out heer from town.”
Mrs. Bishop had not spoken until now, standing in the shadows of
the others as if bewildered by what seemed a mocking impossibility.
“Is it our money—is it our'n?” she finally found voice to say. “Oh,
is it, Pole?”
“Yes, 'm,” replied Pole. “It's yo'rn.” He produced a crumpled piece
of paper and handed it to Miller. “Heer's Craig's order on his wife fer
it, an' in it he acknowledges it's the cash deposited by Mr. Bishop. He
won't give me no trouble. I've got 'im fixed. He 'll leave Darley in the
mornin'. He's afeerd this 'll git out an' he 'll be lynched.”
Alan was profoundly moved. He transferred his gaze from the
money to Pole's face, and leaned towards him.
“You did it out of friendship for me,” he said, his voice shaking.
“That's what I did it fer, Alan, an' I wish I could do it over agin.
When I laid hold o' that wad an' knowed it was the thing you wanted
more'n anything else, I felt like flyin'.”
“Tell us all about it, Baker,” said Miller, wrapping up the stack of
bills.
“All right,” said Pole, but Mrs. Bishop interrupted him.
 “Wait fer Alfred,” she said, her voice rising and cracking in delight.
“Wait; I 'll run find 'im.”
She went out through the dining-room towards the stables, calling
her husband at every step. “Alfred, oh, Alfred!”
“Heer!” she heard him call out from one of the stables.
She leaned over the fence opposite the closed door, behind which
she had heard his voice.
“Oh, Alfred!” she called, “come out, quick! I've got news fer you—
big, big news!”
She heard him grumbling as he emptied some ears of corn into
the trough of the stall containing Alan' s favorite horse, and then
with a growl he emerged into the starlight.
“That fool nigger only give Alan's hoss six ears o' corn,” he fumed.
“I know, beca'se I counted the cobs; the hoss had licked the trough
clean, an' gnawed the ends o' the cobs. The idea o' starvin' my stock
right before my—”
“Oh, Alfred, what do you think has happened?” his wife broke in.
“We've got the bank money back! Pole Baker managed somehow to
get it. He's goin' to tell about it now. Come on in!”
Bishop closed the door behind him; he fumbled with the chain and
padlock for an instant, then he moved towards her, his lip hanging,
his eyes protruding.
“I 'll believe my part o' that when—”
“But,” she cried, opening the gate for him to pass through, “the
money's thar in the house on the table; it's been counted. I say it's
thar! Don't you believe it?”
The old man moved through the gate mechanically. He paused to
fasten it with the iron ring over the two posts. But after that he
seemed to lose the power of locomotion. He stood facing her, his
features working.
“I 'll believe my part o' that cat-an'-bull story when I see—”
“Well, come in the house, then,” she cried. “You kin lay yore hands
on it an' count it. It's a awful big pile, an' nothin' less than fifty-dollar
bills.”
Grasping his arm, she half dragged, half led him into the house.
Entering the sitting-room, he strode to the table and, without a
word, picked up the package and opened it. He made an effort to
count the money, but his fingers seemed to have lost their cunning,
and he gave it up.
“It's all there,” Miller assured him, “and it's your money. You
needn't bother about that.”
Bishop sat down in his place in the chimney corner, the packet on
his knees, while Pole Baker, modestly, and not without touches of
humor, recounted his experiences.
“The toughest job I had was managin' the woman,” Pole laughed.
“You kin always count on a woman to be contrary. I believe ef you
was tryin' to git some women out of a burnin' house they'd want to
have the'r way about it. She read the order an' got white about the
gills an' screamed, low, so nobody wouldn't heer 'er, an' then wanted
to ax questions. That's the female of it. She knowed in reason that
Craig was dead fixed an' couldn't git out until she complied with the
instructions, but she wanted to know all about it. I reckon she
thought he wouldn't give full particulars—an' he won't, nuther. She
wouldn't budge to git the money, an' time was a-passin'. I finally had
a thought that fetched 'er. I told 'er Craig was confined in a place
along with a barrel o' gunpowder; that a slow fuse was burnin'
towards 'im, an' that he'd go sky-high at about sundown ef I didn't
git thar an' kick out the fire. Then I told 'er she'd be arrested fer
holdin' the money, an' that got 'er in a trot. She fetched it out purty
quick, a-cryin' an' abusin' me by turns. As soon as the money left 'er
hands though, she begun to beg me to ride fast. I wanted to come
heer fust; but I felt sorter sorry fer Craig, an' went an' let 'im out. He
was the gladdest man to see me you ever looked at. He thought I
was goin' to leave 'im thar. He looked like he wanted to hug me. He
says Winship wasn't much to blame. They both got in deep water
speculatin', an' Craig was tempted to cabbage on the twenty-five
thousand dollars.”
 When Pole had concluded, the group sat in silence for a long time.
It looked as if Bishop wanted to openly thank Pole for what he had
done, but he had never done such a thing in the presence of others,
and he could not pull himself to it. He sat crouched up in his tilted
chair as if burning up with the joy of his release.
The silence was broken by Abner Daniel, as he filled his pipe anew
and stood over the fireplace.
“They say money's a cuss an' the root of all evil,” he said, dryly.
“But in this case it's give Pole Baker thar a chance to show what's in
'im. I'd 'a' give the last cent I have to 'a' done what he did to-day. I
grant you he used deception, but it was the fust-water sort that that
Bible king resorted to when he made out he was goin' to divide that
baby by cuttin' it in halves. He fetched out the good an' squelched
the bad.” Abner glanced at Pole, and gave one of his impulsive
inward laughs. “My boy, when I reach t'other shore I expect to see
whole strings o' sech law-breakers as you a-playin' leap-frog on the
golden sands. You don't sing an' pray a whole lot, nur keep yore
religion in sight, but when thar's work to be done you shuck off yore
shirt an' do it like a wild-cat a-scratchin'.”
No one spoke after this outburst for several minutes, though the
glances cast in his direction showed the embarrassed ex-moonshiner
that one and all had sanctioned Abner Daniel's opinion.
Bishop leaned forward and looked at the clock, and seeing that it
was nine, he put the money in a bureau-drawer and turned the key.
Then he took down the big family Bible from its shelf and sat down
near the lamp. They all knew what the action portended.
“That's another thing,” smiled Abner Daniel, while his brother-in-
law was searching for his place in the big Book. “Money may be a
bad thing, a cuss an' a evil, an' what not, but Alf 'ain't felt like holdin'
prayer sence the bad news come; an' now that he's got the scads
once more the fust thing is an appeal to the Throne. Yes, it may be
a bad thing, but sometimes it sets folks to singin' an' shoutin'. Ef I
was a-runnin' of the universe, I believe I'd do a lots o' distributin' in
low places. I'd scrape off a good many tops an' level up more.
Accordin' to some, the Lord's busy watchin' birds fall to the ground. I
reckon our hard times is due to them pesky English sparrows that's
overrun ever'thing.”
“You'd better dry up, Uncle Ab,” said Pole Baker. “That's the kind o'
talk that made brother Dole jump on you.”
“Huh! That's a fact,” said Daniel; “but this is in the family.”
Then Bishop began to read in his even, declamatory voice, and all
the others looked steadily at the fire in the chimney, their faces
lighted up by the flickering flames.
When they had risen from their knees after prayer, Pole looked at
Abner with eyes from which shot beams of amusement. He seemed
to enjoy nothing so much as hearing Abner's religious opinions.
“You say this thing has set Mr. Bishop to prayin', Uncle Ab?” he
asked.
“That's what,” smiled Abner, who had never admired Baker so
much before. “Ef I stay heer, an' they ever git that railroad through,
I'm goin' to have me a pair o' knee-pads made.”
 XXVIII

BOUT a week after the events recorded in the preceding

chapter, old man Bishop, just at dusk one evening, rode up
to Pole Baker's humble domicile.
Pole was in the front yard making a fire of sticks, twigs,
and chips.
“What's that fer?” the old man questioned, as he dismounted and
hitched his horse to the worm fence.
“To drive off mosquitoes,” said Pole, wiping his eyes, which were
red from the effects of the smoke. “I 'll never pass another night like
the last un ef I kin he'p it. I 'lowed my hide was thick, but they
bored fer oil all over me from dark till sun-up. I never 've tried
smoke, but Hank Watts says it's ahead o' pennyr'yal.”
“Shucks!” grunted the planter, “you ain't workin' it right. A few
rags burnin' in a pan nigh yore bed may drive 'em out, but a smoke
out heer in the yard 'll jest drive 'em in.”
“What?” said Pole, in high disgust. “Do you expect me to sleep
sech hot weather as this is with a fire nigh my bed? The durn things
may eat me raw, but I 'll be blamed ef I barbecue myse'f to please
'em.”
Mrs. Baker appeared in the cabin-door, holding two of the
youngest children by their hands. “He won't take my advice, Mr.
Bishop,” she said. “I jest rub a little lamp-oil on my face an' hands
an' they don't tetch me.” Pole grunted and looked with laughing eyes
at the old man.
“She axed me t'other night why I'd quit kissin' 'er,” he said. “An' I
told 'er I didn't keer any more fer kerosene than the mosquitoes
did.”
Mrs. Baker laughed pleasantly, as she brought out a chair for
Bishop and invited him to sit down. He complied, twirling his riding-
switch in his hand. From his position, almost on a level with the
floor, he could see the interior of one of the rooms. It was almost
bare of furniture. Two opposite corners were occupied by crude
bedsteads; in the centre of the room was a cradle made from a
soap-box on rockers sawn from rough poplar boards. It had the
appearance of having been in use through several generations. Near
it stood a spinning-wheel and a three-legged stool. The sharp steel
spindle gleamed in the firelight from the big log and mud chimney.
“What's the news from town, Mr. Bishop?” Pole asked, awkwardly,
for it struck him that Bishop had called to talk with him about some
business and was reluctant to introduce it.
“Nothin' that interests any of us, I reckon, Pole,” said the old man,
“except I made that investment in Shoal Cotton Factory stock.”
“That's good,” said Pole, in the tone of anybody but a man who
had never invested a dollar in anything. “It's all hunkey, an' my
opinion is that it 'll never be wuth less.”
“I did heer, too,” added Bishop, “that it was reported that Craig
had set up a little grocery store out in Texas, nigh the Indian
Territory. Some thinks that Winship 'll turn up thar an' jine 'im, but a
body never knows what to believe these days.”
“That shore is a fact,” opined Pole. “Sally, that corn-bread's a-
burnin'; ef you'd use less lamp-oil you'd smell better.”
Mrs. Baker darted to the fireplace, raked the live coals from
beneath the cast-iron oven, and jerked off the lid in a cloud of steam
and smoke. She turned over the pone with the aid of a case-knife,
and then came back to the door.
“Fer the last month I've had my eye on the Bascome farm,” Bishop
was saying. “Thar's a hundred acres even, some good bottom land
and upland, an' in the neighborhood o' thirty acres o' good wood.
Then thar's a five-room house, well made an' tight, an' a barn, cow-
house, an' stable.”
 “Lord! I know the place like a book,” said Pole; “an' it's a dandy
investment, Mr. Bishop. They say he offered it fer fifteen hundred.
It's wuth two thousand. You won't drap any money by buyin' that
property, Mr. Bishop. I'd hate to contract to build jest the house an'
well an' out-houses fer a thousand.”
“I bought it,” Bishop told him. “He let me have it fer a good deal
less 'n fifteen hundred, cash down.”
“Well, you made a dandy trade, Mr. Bishop. Ah, that's what ready
money will do. When you got the cash things seem to come at
bottom figures.”
Old Bishop drew a folded paper from his pocket and slapped it on
his knee. “Yes, I closed the deal this evenin', an' I was jest a-thinkin'
that as you hain't rented fer next yeer—I mean—” Bishop was
ordinarily direct of speech, but somehow his words became tangled,
and he delivered himself awkwardly on this occasion. “You see, Alan
thinks that you 'n Sally ort to live in a better house than jest this
heer log-cabin, an'—”
The wan face of the tired woman was aglow with expectation. She
sank down on the doorstep, and sat still and mute, her hands
clasping each other in her lap. She had always disliked that cabin
and its sordid surroundings, and there was something in Bishop's
talk that made her think he was about to propose renting the new
farm, house and all, to her husband. Her mouth fell open; she
scarcely allowed herself to breathe. Then, as Bishop paused, her
husband's voice struck dumb dismay to her heart. It was as if she
were falling from glowing hope back to tasted despair.
“Thar's more land in that farm an' I could do jestice to, Mr. Bishop;
but ef thar's a good cabin on it an' you see fit to cut off enough fer
me'n one hoss I'd jest as soon tend that as this heer. I want to do
what you an' Alan think is best all'round.”
“Oh, Pole, Pole!” The woman was crying it to herself, her face
lowered to her hands that the two men might not see the agony
written in her eyes. A house like that to live in, with all those rooms
and fireplaces, and windows with panes of glass in them! She
fancied she saw her children playing on the tight, smooth floors and
on the honeysuckled porch. For one minute these things had been
hers, to be snatched away by the callous indifference of her
husband, who, alas! had never cared a straw for appearances.
“Oh, I wasn't thinking about rentin'' it to you,” said Bishop, and
the woman's dream was over. She raised her head, awake again.
“You see,” went on Bishop, still struggling for proper expression,
“Alan thinks—well, he thinks you are sech a born fool about not
acceptin' help from them that feels nigh to you, an' I may as well
say grateful, exceedingly grateful, fer what you've done, things that
no other livin' man could 'a' done. Alan thinks you ort to have the
farm fer yore own property, an' so the deeds has been made out to
—”
Pole drew himself up to his full height. His big face was flushed,
half with anger, half with a strong emotion of a tenderer kind. He
stood towering over the old man like a giant swayed by the warring
winds of good and evil, “I won't heer a word more of that, Mr.
Bishop,” he said, with a quivering lip; “not a word more. By golly! I
mean what I say. I don't want to heer another word of it. This heer
place is good enough fer me an' my family. It's done eight yeer, an' it
kin do another eight.”
“Oh, Pole, Pole, Pole!” The woman's cry was now audible. It came
straight from her pent-up, starving soul and went right to Bishop's
heart.
“You want the place, don't you, Sally?” he said, calling her by her
given name for the first time, as if he had just discovered their
kinship. He could not have used a tenderer tone to child of his own.
“Mind, mind what you say, Sally!” ordered Pole, from the depths of
his fighting emotions. “Mind what you say!”
The woman looked at Bishop. Her glance was on fire.
“Yes, I want it—I want it!” she cried. “I ain't goin' to lie. I want it
more right now than I do the kingdom of heaven. I want it ef we
have a right to it. Oh, I don't know.” She dropped her head in her
lap and began to sob.
 Bishop stood up. He moved towards her in a jerky fashion and laid
his hand on the pitifully tight knot of hair at the back of her head.
“Well, it's yores,” he said. “Alan thought Pole would raise a kick
agin it, an' me'n him had it made out in yore name, so he couldn't
tetch it. It's yores, Sally Ann Baker. That's the way it reads.”
The woman's sobs increased, but they were sobs of unbridled joy.
With her apron to her eyes she rose and hurried into the house.
The eyes of the two men met. Bishop spoke first:
“You've got to give in, Pole,” he said. “You'd not be a man to stand
betwixt yore wife an' a thing she wants as bad as she does that
place, an', by all that's good an' holy, you sha 'n' t.”
“What's the use o' me tryin' to git even with Alan,” Pole exclaimed,
“ef he's eternally a-goin' to git up some 'n'? I've been tickled to
death ever since I cornered old Craig till now, but you an' him has
sp'iled it all by this heer trick. It ain't fair to me.”
“Well, it's done,” smiled the old man, as he went to his horse; “an'
ef you don't live thar with Sally, I 'll make 'er git a divorce.”
Bishop had reached a little pig-pen in a fence-corner farther along,
on his way home, when Mrs. Baker suddenly emerged from a patch
of high corn in front of him.
“Is he a-goin' to take it, Mr. Bishop?” she asked, panting from her
hurried walk through the corn that hid her from the view of the
cabin.
“Yes,” Bishop told her; “I'm a-goin' to send two wagons over in the
morning to move yore things. I wish it was ten times as good a
place as it is, but it will insure you an' the children a living an' a
comfortable home.”
After the manner of many of her kind, the woman uttered no
words of thanks, but simply turned back into the corn, and, occupied
with her own vision of prosperity and choking with gratitude, she
hurried back to the cabin.
 XXIX

HE summer ended, the autumn passed, 'and Christmas

approached. Nothing of much importance had taken place
among the characters of this little history. The Southern Land
and Timber Company, and Wilson in particular, had
disappointed Miller and Alan by their reticence in regard to the
progress of the railroad scheme. At every meeting with Wilson they
found him either really or pretendedly indifferent about the matter.
His concern, he told them, was busy in other quarters, and that he
really did not know what they would finally do about it.
“He can' t pull the wool over my eyes,” Miller told his friend, after
one of these interviews. “He simply thinks he can freeze you out by
holding off till you have to raise money.”
“He may have inquired into my father's financial condition,”
suggested Alan, with a long face.
“Most likely,” replied the lawyer.
“And discovered exactly where we stand.”
“Perhaps, but we must not believe that till we know it. I'm going
to try to checkmate him. I don't know how, but I 'll think of
something. He feels that he has the upper hand now, but I 'll
interest him some of these days.”
Alan's love affair had also been dragging. He had had numerous
assurances of Dolly's constancy, but since learning how her father
had acted the night he supposed she had eloped with Alan, her eyes
had been opened to the seriousness of offending Colonel Barclay.
She now knew that her marriage against his will would cause her
immediate disinheritance, and she was too sensible a girl to want to
go to Alan without a dollar and with the doors of her home closed
against her. Besides, she believed in Alan' s future. She, somehow,
had more faith in the railroad than any other interested person. She
knew, too, that she was now more closely watched than formerly.
She had, with firm finality, refused Frank Hillhouse's offer of
marriage, and that had not helped her case in the eyes of her
exasperated parent. Her mother occupied neutral ground; she had a
vague liking for Alan Bishop, and, if the whole truth must be told,
was heartily enjoying the situation. She was enjoying it so subtly and
so heartily, in her own bloodless way, that she was at times almost
afraid of its ending suddenly.
On Christmas Eve Adele was expected home from Atlanta, and
Alan had come in town to meet her. As it happened, an accident
delayed her train so that it would not reach Darley till ten o' clock at
night instead of six in the evening, so there was nothing for her
brother to do but arrange for their staying that night at the Johnston
House. Somewhat to Alan' s surprise, who had never discovered the
close friendship and constant correspondence existing between
Miller and his sister, the former announced that he was going to
spend the night at the hotel and drive out to the farm with them the
next morning. Of course, it was agreeable, Alan reflected, but it was
a strange thing for Miller to propose.
From the long veranda of the hotel after supper that evening the
two friends witnessed the crude display of holiday fireworks in the
street below. Half a dozen big bonfires made of dry-goods boxes,
kerosene and tar barrels, and refuse of all kinds were blazing along
the main street. Directly opposite the hotel the only confectionery
and toy store in the place was crowded to overflowing by eager
customers, and in front of it the purchasers of fireworks were letting
them off for the benefit of the bystanders. Fire-crackers were
exploded by the package, and every now and then a clerk in some
store would come to the front door and fire off a gun or a revolver.
All this noise and illumination was at its height when Adele's train
drew up in the car-shed. The bonfires near at hand made it as light
as day, and she had no trouble recognizing the two friends.
 “Oh, what an awful racket!” she exclaimed, as she released herself
from Alan' s embrace and gave her hand to Miller.
“It's in your honor,” Miller laughed, as, to Alan' s vast
astonishment, he held on to her hand longer than seemed right. “We
ought to have had the brass band out.”
“Oh, I'm so glad to get home,” said Adele, laying her hand on
Miller's extended arm. Then she released it to give Alan her trunk-
checks. “Get them, brother,” she said. “Mr. Miller will take care of me.
I suppose you are not going to drive home to-night.”
“Not if you are tired,” said Miller, in a tone Alan had never heard
his friend use to any woman, nor had he ever seen such an
expression on Miller's face as lay there while the lawyer's eyes were
feasting themselves on the girl's beauty.
Alan hurried away after the trunks and a porter. He was almost
blind with a rage that was new to him. Was Miller deliberately
beginning a flirtation with Adele at a moment's notice? And had she
been so spoiled by the “fast set” of Atlanta during her stay there
that she would allow it—even if Miller was a friend of the family? He
found a negro porter near the heap of luggage that had been hurled
from the baggage-car, and ordered his sister's trunks taken to the
hotel. Then he followed the couple moodily up to the hotel parlor. He
was destined to undergo another shock, for, on entering that room,
he surprised Miller and Adele on a sofa behind the big square piano
with their heads suspiciously near together, and so deeply were they
engaged in conversation that, although he drew up a chair near
them, they paid no heed to him further than to recognize his
appearance with a lifting of their eyes. They were talking of social
affairs in Atlanta and people whose names were unfamiliar to Alan.
He rose and stood before the fireplace, but they did not notice his
change of position. Truly it was maddening. He told himself that
Adele's pretty face and far too easy manner had attracted Miller's
attention temporarily, and the fellow was daring to enter one of his
flirtations right before his eyes. Alan would give him a piece of his
mind at the first opportunity, even if he was under obligations to
him. Indeed, Miller had greatly disappointed him, and so had Adele.
He had always thought she, like Dolly Barclay, was different from
other girls; but no, she was like them all. Miller's attention had
simply turned her head. Well, as soon as he had a chance he would
tell her a few things about Miller and his views of women. That
would put her on her guard, but it would not draw out the poisoned
sting left by Miller's presumption, or indelicacy, or whatever it was.
Alan rose and stood at the fire unnoticed for several minutes, and
then he showed that he was at least a good chaperon, for he
reached out and drew on the old-fashioned bell-pull in the chimney-
corner. The porter appeared, and Alan asked: “Is my sister's room
ready?”
“Yes, it's good and warm now, suh,” said the negro. “I started the
fire an hour ago.”
Miller and Adele had paused to listen.
“Oh, you are going to hurry me off to bed,” the girl said, with an
audible sigh.
“You must be tired after that ride,” said Alan, coldly.
“That's a fact, you must be,” echoed Miller. “Well, if you have to
go, you can finish telling me in the morning. You know I'm going to
spend the night here, where I have a regular room, and I 'll see you
at breakfast.”
“Oh, I'm so glad,” said Adele. “Yes, I can finish telling you in the
morning.” Then she seemed to notice her brother's long face, and
she laughed out teasingly: “I 'll bet he and Dolly are no nearer
together than ever.”
“You are right,” Miller joined in her mood; “the Colonel still has his
dogs ready for Alan, but they 'll make it up some day, I hope. Dolly
is next to the smartest girl I know.”
“Oh, you are a flatterer,” laughed Adele, and she gave Miller her
hand. “Don't forget to be up for early breakfast. We must start soon
in the morning. I'm dying to see the home folks.”
Alan was glad that Miller had a room of his own, for he was not in
a mood to converse with him; and when Adele had retired he
refused Miller's proffered cigar and went to his own room.
 Miller grunted as Alan turned away. “He's had bad news of some
sort,” he thought, “and it's about Dolly Barclay. I wonder, after all, if
she would stick to a poor man. I begin to think some women would.
Adele is of that stripe—yes, she is, and isn't she stunning-looking?
She's a gem of the first water, straight as a die, full of pluck and—
she's all right—all right!”
He went out on the veranda to smoke and enjoy repeating these
things over to himself. The bonfires in the street were dying down to
red embers, around which stood a few stragglers; but there was a
blaze of new light over the young man' s head. Along his horizon
had dawned a glorious reason for his existence; a reason that
discounted every reason he had ever entertained. “Adele, Adele,” he
said to himself, and then his cigar went out. Perhaps, his thoughts
ran on in their mad race with happiness—perhaps, with her fair head
on her pillow, she was thinking of him as he was of her.
Around the corner came a crowd of young men singing negro
songs. They passed under the veranda, and Miller recognized Frank
Hillhouse's voice. “That you, Frank?” Miller called out, leaning over
the railing.
“Yes—that you, Ray?” Hillhouse stepped out into view. “Come on;
we are going to turn the town over. Every sign comes down,
according to custom, you know. Old Thad Moore is drunk in the
calaboose. They put him in late this evening. We are going to mask
and let him out. It's a dandy racket; we are going to make him think
we are White Caps, and then set him down in the bosom of his
family. Come on.”
“I can't to-night,” declined Miller, with a laugh. “I'm dead tired.”
“Well, if you hear all the church bells ringing, you needn't think it's
fire, and jump out of your skin. We ain't going to sleep to-night, and
we don't intend to let anybody else do it.”
“Well, go it while you are young,” Miller retorted, with a laugh, and
Hillhouse joined his companions in mischief and they passed on
singing merrily.
 Miller threw his cigar away and went to his room. He was
ecstatically happy. The mere thought that Adele Bishop was under
the same roof with him, and on the morrow was going to people
who liked him, and leaned on his advice and experience, gave him a
sweet content that thrilled him from head to foot.
“Perhaps I ought to tell Alan,” he mused, “but he 'll find it out
soon enough; and, hang it all, I can' t tell him how I feel about his
own sister, after all the rot I've stuffed into him.”
 XXX

HE next morning, as soon as he was up, Alan went to his

sister's room. He found her dressed and ready for him. She
was seated before a cheerful grate-fire, looking over a
magazine she had brought to pass the time on the train.
“Come in,” she said, pleasantly enough, he reflected, now that
Miller was not present to absorb her attention. “I expected you to
get up a little earlier. Those guns down at the bar-room just about
daybreak waked me, and I couldn't go to sleep again. There is no
use denying it, Al, we have a barbarous way of amusing ourselves
up here in North Georgia.”
He went in and stood with his back to the fire, still unable to rid
his brow of the frown it had worn the night before.
“Oh, I reckon you've got too citified for us,” he said, “along with
other accomplishments that fast set down there has taught you.”
Adele laid her book open on her lap.
“Look here, Alan,” she said, quite gravely. “What's the matter with
you?”
“Nothing, that I know of,” he said, without meeting her direct
gaze.
“Well, there is,” she said, as the outcome of her slow inspection of
his clouded features.
He shrugged his shoulders and gave her his eyes steadily.
“I don't like the way you and Miller are carrying on.” He hurled the
words at her sullenly. “You see, I know him through and through.”
“Well, that's all right,” she replied, not flinching from his indignant
stare; “but what's that got to do with my conduct and his?”
 “You allow him to be too familiar with you,” Alan retorted. “He's
not the kind of a man for you to—to act that way with. He has flirted
with a dozen women and thrown them over; he doesn't believe in
the honest love of a man for a woman, or the love of a woman for a
man.”
“Ah, I am at the first of this!” Adele, instead of being put down by
his stormy words, was smiling inwardly. Her lips were rigid, but Alan
saw the light of keen amusement in her eyes. “Is he really so
dangerous? That makes him doubly interesting. Most girls love to
handle masculine gunpowder. Do you know, if I was Dolly Barclay,
for instance, an affair with you would not be much fun, because I'd
be so sure of you. The dead level of your past would alarm me.”
“Thank Heaven, all women are not alike!” was the bolt he hurled
at her. “If you knew as much about Ray Miller as I do, you'd act in a
more dignified way on a first acquaintance with him.”
“On a first—oh, I see what you mean!” Adele put her handkerchief
to her face and treated herself to a merry laugh that exasperated
him beyond endurance. Then she stood up, smoothing her smile
away. “Let's go to breakfast. I'm as hungry as a bear. I told Rayburn
—I mean your dangerous friend, Mr. Miller—that we'd meet him in
the dining-room. He says he's crazy for a cup of coffee with whipped
cream in it. I ordered it just now.”
“The dev—” Alan bit the word in two and strode from the room,
she following. The first person they saw in the big dining-room was
Miller, standing at the stove in the centre of the room warming
himself. He scarcely looked at Alan in his eagerness to have a chair
placed for Adele at a little table reserved for three in a corner of the
room, which was presided over by a slick-looking mulatto waiter,
whose father had belonged to Miller's family.
“I've been up an hour,” he said to her. “I took a stroll down the
street to see what damage the gang did last night. Every sign is
down or hung where it doesn't belong. To tease the owner, an old
negro drayman, whom everybody jokes with, they took his wagon to
pieces and put it together again on the roof of Harmon's drug-store.
How they got it there is a puzzle that will go down in local history
like the building of the Pyramids.”
“Whiskey did it,” laughed Adele; “that will be the final
explanation.”
“I think you are right,” agreed Miller.
Alan bolted his food in grum silence, unnoticed by the others.
Adele's very grace at the table, as she prepared Miller's coffee, and
her apt repartee added to his discomfiture. He excused himself from
the table before they had finished, mumbling something about
seeing if the horses were ready, and went into the office. The last
blow to his temper was dealt by Adele as she came from the dining-
room.
“Mr. Miller wants to drive me out in his buggy to show me his
horses,” she said, half smiling. “You won't mind, will you? You see,
he 'll want his team out there to get back in, and—”
“Oh, I don't mind,” he told her. “I see you are bent on making a
goose of yourself. After what I've told you about Miller, if you still—”
But she closed his mouth with her hand.
“Leave him to me, brother,” she said, as she turned away. “I'm old
enough to take care of myself, and—and—well, I know men better
than you do.”
When Alan reached home he found that Miller and Adele had been
there half an hour. His mother met him at the door with a
mysterious smile on her sweet old face, as she nodded at the closed
door of the parlor.
“Don't go in there now,” she whispered. “Adele and Mr. Miller have
been there ever since they come. I railly believe they are in love with
each other. I never saw young folks act more like it. When I met 'em
it looked jest like he wanted to kiss me, he was so happy. Now
wouldn't it be fine if they was to get married? He's the nicest man in
the State, and the best catch.”
“Oh, mother,” said Alan, “you don't understand. Rayburn Miller is
—”
 “Well, Adele will know how to manage him,” broke in the old lady,
too full of her view of the romance to harken to his; “she ain't no
fool, son. She 'll twist him around her finger if she wants to. She's
pretty, an' stylish, an' as sharp as a brier. Ah, he's jest seen it all and
wants her; you can't fool me! I know how people act when they are
in love. I've seen hundreds, and I never saw a worse case on both
sides than this is.”
Going around to the stables to see that his horses were properly
attended to, Alan met his uncle leaning over the rail-fence looking
admiringly at a young colt that was prancing around the lot.
“Christmas gift,” said the old man, suddenly. “I ketched you that
time shore pop.”
“Yes, you got ahead of me,” Alan admitted.
The old man came nearer to him, nodding his head towards the
house. “Heerd the news?” he asked, with a broad grin of delight.
“What news is that?” Alan asked, dubiously. “Young Miss,” a name
given Adele by the negroes, and sometimes used jestingly by the
family—“Young Miss has knocked the props clean from under Miller.”
Alan frowned and hung his head for a moment; then he said:
“Uncle Ab, do you remember what I told you about Miller's opinion
of love and women in general?”
The old man saw his drift and burst into a full, round laugh.
“I know you told me what he said about love an' women in
general, but I don't know as you said what he thought about women
in particular. This heer's a particular case. I tell you she's fixed 'im.
Yore little sis has done the most complete job out o' tough material I
ever inspected. He's a gone coon; he 'll never make another brag;
he's tied hand an' foot.”
Alan looked straight into his uncle's eyes. A light was breaking on
him. “Uncle Ab,” he said, “do you think he is—really in love with
her?”
“Ef he ain't, an' don't ax yore pa an' ma fer 'er before a month's
gone, I 'll deed you my farm. Now, look heer. A feller knows his own
sister less'n he does anybody else; that's beca'se you never have
thought of Adele follerin' in the trail of womankind. You'd hate fer a
brother o' that town gal to be raisin' sand about you, wouldn't you?
Well, you go right on an' let them two kill the'r own rats.”
Alan and his uncle were returning to the house when Pole Baker
dismounted at the front gate and came into the yard.
Since becoming a landed proprietor his appearance had altered for
the better most materially. He wore a neat, well-fitting suit of clothes
and a new hat, but of the same broad dimensions as the old. Its
brim was pinned up on the right side by a little brass ornament.
“I seed Mr. Miller drive past my house awhile ago with Miss Adele,”
he said, “an' I come right over. I want to see all of you together.”
Just then Miller came out of the parlor and descended the steps to
join them.
“Christmas gift, Mr. Miller!” cried Pole. “I ketched you that time.”
“And if I paid up, you'd cuss me out,” retorted the lawyer, with a
laugh. “I haven't forgotten the row you raised about that suit of
clothes. Well, what's the news? How's your family?”
“About as common, Mr. Miller,” said Pole. “My wife's gittin' younger
an' younger ever'day. Sence she moved in 'er new house, an' got to
whitewashin' fences an' makin' flower-beds, an' one thing another,
she looks like a new person. I'd 'a' bought 'er a house long ago ef I'd
'a' knowed she wanted it that bad. Oh, we put on the lugs now! We
wipe with napkins after eatin', an' my littlest un sets in a high-chair
an' says 'Please pass the gravy,' like he'd been off to school. Sally
says she's a-goin' to send 'em, an' I don't keer ef she does; they 'll
stand head, ef they go; the'r noggin' s look like squashes, but
they're full o' seeds, an' don't you ferget it.”
“That they are!” intoned Abner Daniel.
“I've drapped onto a little news,” said Pole. “You know what a old
moonshiner cayn't pick up in these mountains from old pards ain't
wuth lookin' fer.”
“Railroad?” asked Miller, interestedly.
 “That's fer you-uns to make out,” said Baker. “Now, I ain't a-goin'
to give away my authority, but I rid twenty miles yesterday to
substantiate what I heerd, an' know it's nothin' but the truth. You all
know old Bobby Milburn's been buyin' timber-land up about yore
property, don't you?”
“I didn't know how much,” answered Miller, “but I knew he had
secured some.”
“Fust and last in the neighborhood o' six thousand acres,” affirmed
Pole, “an' he's still on the war-path. What fust attracted my notice
was findin' out that old Bobby hain't a dollar to his name. That made
me suspicious, an' I went to work to investigate.”
“Good boy!” said Uncle Abner, in an admiring undertone.
“Well, I found out he was usin' Wilson's money, an' secretly buyin'
fer him; an' what's more, he seems to have unlimited authority, an' a
big bank account to draw from.”
There was a startled pause. It was broken by Miller, whose eyes
were gleaming excitedly.
“It's blame good news,” he said, eying Alan.
“Do you think so?” said Alan, who was still under his cloud of
displeasure with his friend.
“Yes; it simply means that Wilson intends to build that road. He's
been quiet, and pretending indifference, for two reasons. First, to
bring us to closer terms, and next to secure more land. Alan, my
boy, the plot thickens! I'm getting that fellow right where I want
him. Pole, you have brought us a dandy Christmas gift, but I 'll be
blamed if you get a thing for it. I don't intend to get shot.”
Then they all went to find Bishop to tell him the news.
 XXXI

T was a cold, dry day about the middle of January. They

were killing hogs at the farm. Seven or eight negroes, men
and women, had gathered from all about in the
neighborhood to assist in the work and get the parts of the
meat usually given away in payment for such services.
Two hogsheads for hot water were half buried in the ground. A big
iron pot with a fire beneath it was heating water and a long fire of
logs heaped over with big stones was near by. When hot, the stones
were to be put into the cooling water to raise the temperature, it
being easier to do this than to replace the water in the pot. The
hogs to be killed were grunting and squealing in a big pen near the
barn.
Abner Daniel and old man Bishop were superintending these
preparations when Alan came from the house to say that Rayburn
Miller had just ridden out to see them on business. “I think it's the
railroad,” Alan informed his father, who always displayed signs of
almost childish excitement when the subject came up. They found
Miller in the parlor being entertained by Adele, who immediately left
the room on their arrival. They all sat down before the cheerful fire.
Miller showed certain signs of embarrassment at first, but gradually
threw them off and got down to the matter in hand quite with his
office manner.
“I've got a proposition to make to you, Mr. Bishop,” he opened up,
with a slight flush on his face. “I've been making some inquiries
about Wilson, and I am more and more convinced that he intends to
freeze us out—or you rather—by holding off till you are obliged to
sell your property for a much lower figure than you now ask him for
it.”
“You think so,” grunted Bishop, pulling a long face.
“Yes; but what I now want to do is to show him, indirectly, that
we are independent of him.”
“Huh!” ejaculated Bishop, even more dejectedly—“huh! I say!”
Alan was looking at Miller eagerly, as if trying to divine the point
he was about to make. “I must confess,” he smiled, “that I can' t
well see how we can show independence right now.”
“Well, I think I see a way,” said Miller, the flush stealing over his
face again. “You see, there is no doubt that Wilson is on his high
horse simply because he thinks he could call on you for that twenty-
five thousand dollars and put you to some trouble raising it without
—without, I say, throwing your land on the market. I can' t blame
him,” Miller went on, smiling, “for it's only what any business man
would do, who is out for profit, but we must not knuckle to him.”
“Huh, huh!” Bishop grunted, in deeper despondency.
“How do you propose to get around the knuckling process?” asked
Alan, who had caught the depression influencing his parent.
“I'd simply take up that note,” said the lawyer. “You know, under
the contract, we are privileged to pay it to-morrow if we wish. It
would simply paralyze him. He's so confident that you can' t take it
up that he has not even written to ask if you want to renew it or not.
Yes; he's confident that he 'll rake in that security—so confident that
he has been, as you know, secretly buying land near yours.”
Old Bishop's eyes were wide open. In the somewhat darkened
room the firelight reflected in them showed like illuminated blood-
spots. He said nothing, but breathed heavily.
“But,” exclaimed Alan, “Ray, you know we—father has invested
that money, and the truth is, that he and mother have already had
so much worry over the business that they would rather let the land
go at what was raised on it than to—to run any more risks.”
 Bishop groaned out his approval of this elucidation of his condition
and sat silently nodding his head. The very thought of further risks
stunned and chilled him.
Miller's embarrassment now descended on him in full force.
“I was not thinking of having your father disturb his investments,”
he said. “The truth is, I have met with a little financial
disappointment in a certain direction. For the last three months I
have been raking and scraping among the dry bones of my
investments to get up exactly twenty-five thousand dollars to secure
a leading interest in a cotton mill at Darley, of which I was to be
president. I managed to get the money together and only yesterday
I learned that the Northern capital that was to guarantee the thing
was only in the corner of a fellow's eye up in Boston—a man that
had not a dollar on earth. Well, there you are! I've my twenty-five
thousand dollars, and no place to put it. I thought, if you had just as
soon owe me the money as Wilson, that you'd really be doing me a
favor to let me take up the note. You see, it would actually floor him.
He means business, and this would show him that we are not asking
any favors of him. In fact, I have an idea it would scare him out of
his skin. He'd think we had another opportunity of selling. I'm dying
to do this, and I hope you 'll let me work it. Really, I think you ought
to consent. I'd never drive you to the wall and—well—he might.”
All eyes were on the speaker. Bishop had the dazed expression of
a bewildered man trying to believe in sudden good luck. Abner
Daniel lowered his head and shook with low, subdued laughter.
“You are a jim-dandy, young man,” he said to Miller. “That's all
there is about it. You take the rag off the bush. Oh, my Lord! They
say in Alt's meeting-house that it's a sin to play poker with no
stakes, but Alf's in a game with half the earth put up agin another
feller's wad as big as a bale o' hay. Play down, Alf. Play down. You've
got a full hand an' plenty to draw from.”
“We couldn't let you do this, Ray,” expostulated Alan.
“But I assure you it is merely a matter of business with me,”
declared the lawyer. “You know I'm interested myself, and I believe
we shall come out all right. I'm simply itching to do it.”
Bishop's face was ablaze. The assurance that a wise young
business man would consider a purchase of his of sufficient value to
put a large amount of money on pleased him, banished his fears,
thrilled him.
“If you feel that way,” he said, smiling at the corners of his mouth,
“go ahead. I don't know but what you are plumb right. It will show
Wilson that we ain't beholden to him, an' will set 'im to work ef
anything will.”
So it was finally settled, and no one seemed so well pleased with
the arrangement as Miller himself. Adele entered the room with the
air of one half fearful of intruding, and her three relatives quietly
withdrew, leaving her to entertain the guest.
“I wonder what's the matter with your brother,” Miller remarked,
as his eyes followed Alan from the room.
“Oh, brother?” laughed Adele. “No one tries to keep up with his
whims and fancies.”
“But, really,” said Miller, in a serious tone, “he has mystified me
lately. I wonder if he has had bad news from Dolly. I've tried to get
into a confidential chat with him several times of late, but he seems
to get around it. Really, it seems to me, at times, that he treats me
rather coldly.”
“Oh, if you waste time noticing Al you 'll become a beggar,” and
Adele gave another amused laugh. “Take my advice and let him
alone.”
“I almost believe you know what ails him,” said Miller, eying her
closely.
“I know what he thinks ails him,” the girl responded.
“And won't you tell me what—what he thinks ails him?”
“No, I couldn't do that,” answered our young lady, with a knowing
smile. “If you are ever any wiser on the subject you will have to get
your wisdom from him.”
 She turned to the piano and began to arrange some scattered
pieces of music, and he remained on the hearth, his back to the fire,
his brow wrinkled in pleased perplexity.
“I 'll have to get my wisdom from him,” repeated Miller,
pronouncing each word with separate distinctness, as if one of them
might prove the key to the mystery.
“Yes, I should think two wise men could settle a little thing like
that. If not, you may call in the third—you know there were three of
you, according to the Bible.”
“Oh, so there were,” smiled Miller; “but it's hard to tell when we
three shall meet again. The last time I saw the other two they were
having their sandals half-soled for a tramp across the desert. I came
this way to build a railroad, and I believe I'm going to do it. That's
linking ancient and modern times together with a coupling-pin, isn't
it?”
She came from the piano and stood by him, looking down into the
fire. “Ah,” she said, seriously, “if you could only do it!”
“Would you like it very much?”
“Very, very much; it means the world to us—to Alan, to father and
mother, and—yes, to me. I hunger for independence.”
“Then it shall be done,” he said, fervently.