time he had finished he scarcely could turn the door-knob with his aching fingers. He entered the kitchen.
It was a large room, with the log walls neatly chinked and whitewashed. An unshaded kerosene lamp burned on the big table in the middle of the room. Judith was cutting bread. The air was heavy with smoke from frying beef. A tall, slender woman, with round shoulders, stood over the red-hot stove, stirring the potatoes. She was a very beautiful, very worn edition of Judith, though one wondered if she ever burned with even a small portion of Judith's eager, wistful fires. She turned as Douglas came in and gave him a quick smile.
"Cold, Douglas?" she asked.
The boy nodded. "Where's Dad?"
"In the other room. His tooth still aches, I guess."
"Is he sore because I'm late?" asked the boy, scowling.
Judith answered with a curious jerking of her breath. "He tried to kick me. I hate him!"
Douglas grunted and marched through the inner door into the one other room of the house. It was at least twenty-five feet square. The log walls were white-washed like the kitchen and from one of the huge pine rafters hung a lamp which shed a pleasant light on a center table. Beds occupied three corners of the room. There were several comfortable rocking-chairs, a big mahogany bureau and a sewing-machine. Over the double bed hung an ancient saber and over a low bookcase was a framed sampler. There were several good old-fashioned engravings and some framed lithographs with numerous books and piles of dilapidated magazines. Doug's father stood by the table with a book in his hand.
John Spencer at forty-six was still a superb physical specimen, standing six feet two in his felt slippers. His face, so like, yet so unlike his son's, showed heavy lines
