528 
“Don’t let’s be fussin’ ’bout that now, 
Slim; you can take me home if you 
want to,” Grace replied, simply. 
Londonites, Hardyites, Garlandites, 
there is little psychology to tell. A 
trivial incident, a look, a word or two, 
and the die is cast. After making her 
mother as comfortable as buffalo robes 
and the straw in the bottom of the sled 
would permit, Grace turned to Slim and 
thanked him in her unaffected and sin- 
cere manner. Then she waited while 
he went for his horse and cutter, re- 
flectively watching meanwhile the 
steaming stove by the church door. It 
was all very strange and dreadful, yet 
to Grace in those few moments alone 
under the stars and watching the scat- 
tering and downcast church members, 
there came a new understanding. Had 
she always been too confiding? The 
contrast of the “pillars” of the church, 
her own father included, scrambling 
out of the windows, every man for 
himself, while the “ungodly” saved the 
church from what would have proved 
a fatal fire, was not to be avoided. She 
saw things in a different light. But 
she was good, was Grace, and she 
glanced up at the starry sky with a 
larger and better faith welling up in her 
heart. 
Slim soon returned, and it was when 
he helped her into the cutter that she 
noticed he had his right hand bound up 
and avoided using it. Instantly she 
was deeply concerned, which discon- 
certed Slim not a little, as he made 
shift to tuck the robes about her. 
“Felt of the stove with one hand so’s 
t’ know where was a cool place t’ grab 
it with the other,” Shim explained. 
But when at last, at Grace’s home, the 
poor fellow unwrapped the rude band- 
age to have his injured hand doctored, 
he disclosed a burn that was serious; to 
say the least. He ground his teeth 
and swore inwardly, while the hand 
was being dressed as only an old- 
RECREATION 
fashioned, motherly country girl knows 
how to fix up burns and cuts and 
smashed fingers. 
“Don’t never think about y’rself, do 
you?” he asked, soberly. 
“Yes, mebbe more’n I ought to. You 
don’t want anybody to think about you, 
do you?” she laughed. A tiny tear- 
drop sparkled upon her cheek; only for 
an instant, for our hero—brushed it 
away. 
The story-teller is not always a 
maker of untruths. Grace’s mother 
died suddenly on Sunday from the shock 
of the previous night. Deacon Bur- 
ger’s wife had worked, worked, worked. 
She was worn out by the burdens she 
had borne; tired out, tired out, and 
weary. But everybody said, “Heart 
trouble.” May be it was! 
The next day Elder Barefoot called 
at the Burger home to offer his con- 
dolences. “A good woman you hed, 
Brother Burger,” said he, by way of 
sympathy. 
“She wuz a good pardner, you bet, 
Brother Barefoot; why, I’d ’a’ sooner 
lost the best cow out of my stable.” 
* * * * * * 
“Slim Davis is too big a fellow to 
mix in with that Burger connection,” 
declared *Squire Bucke when he re- 
peated the Deacon’s brutal words to 
gracious Mrs. Bucke as they sat side 
by side at their hearth-fire of Content. 
For once the kindly father of Slim’s 
dearest chum missed fire. Though 
their joys are as shallow as their griefs, 
no one can say truthfully that Slim 
and Grace are not jolly and happy in a 
quiet, humble way all their own. Hard- 
working, saving, thrifty lives, as hon- 
orable as a shamming world ever knew, 
engaged with plowing, milking, lowly 
toil, and clinging to a religion that holds 
few complexities—“the easiest-geared, 
smoothest-runnin’ couple in hull Dutch 
Corners.” 
