But Aaron, with his mind on the far off world across the smoky autumn
hills, was pained at such a suggestion. "You're wrong, mother," he
said solemnly. "No, sirree. He's not from roundabout. And he's no
common tramp either. He's come a distance, I believe."

"Then," said Margaret with regret, "I suppose he'll be going on again."

Aaron Bade stared attentively at one brown hand. "We could use a man
on the farm," he said.

It gave his wife no pleasure to be obliged to agree with him.

"There's plenty still for a man to do, after you're done," she said.
But she smiled almost at once; for like the women of that north
country, crabbed and twisted as their own apple trees, she loved her
husband for the trouble he gave her.

"It's a queer thing," said Aaron; "he has the look of a bookish man.
Like old St. John Deakan down to the Forge, only St. John don't know
anything, for all his looks."

"His talk was elegant," Mrs. Bade agreed. She stood still for a
moment, looking down at her pots and pans. "He's seen a deal of life,
I dare say," she added casually--so casually as to make one almost
think that she herself had seen all she wanted to see.

"Well," said Aaron, "that's what schooling does for a man. It gives
him a manner of talking, along with something to say."

Margaret, bent over her work again, plunged her red, wet arms up to the