You can get along
all right."
"I don't know how I'm going to do everything alone," said the
girl, forcing back her tears. "You've always made the brown
bread, and mine will never suit father. I suppose I can wash, but
don't know how to iron starched clothes, nor make pickles, and
oh! I can never kill a rooster, mother, it's no use to ask me to!
I'm not big enough to be the head of the family."
Mrs. Baxter turned her pale, tired face away from Waitstill's
appealing eyes.
"I know," she said faintly. "I hate to leave you to bear the
brunt alone, but I must! . . . Take good care of Patience and
don't let her get into trouble. . . . You won't, will you?"
"I'll be careful," promised Waitstill, sobbing quietly; "I'll do
my best."
"You've got more courage than ever I had; don't you s'pose you
can stiffen up and defend yourself a little mite? . . . Your
father'd ought to be opposed, for his own good . . . but I've
never seen anybody that dared do it." Then, after a pause, she
said with a flash of spirit,--"Anyhow, Waitstill, he's your
father after all. He's no blood relation of mine, and I can't
stand him another day; that's the reason I'm willing to die."
IV
SOMETHING OF A HERO
IVORY BOYNTON lifted the bars that divided his land from the
highroad and walked slowly toward the house.
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