"I s'pose Armindy had things her own way las' night?"
"Purty much."
"I don't, for the life o' me, see why you all should be crazy about that girl. Now 'Mandy or Sary Ann Wood, or Betsey—"
"Ugly as crows, all of 'em."
"Well, they may n't be as purty as pictur's, but they are a sight better than Armindy Hudgins," she retorted, indignantly.
"They certainly ain't smarter, mother."
"No; I s'pose they ain't, for work," said Mrs. Hurd, reluctantly; "but principles count for somethin', Eph'um—you'll 'low that."
"Yes; yes," he cried, and hastily left the table. Who could show less principle than he had?
He went out to work, hoeing and thinning the young corn in a field he had cleared on the mountain-side, but the vigor had gone out of him with hope and courage. The sunlight dazed him, and after a while he stopped and leaned upon his hoe, looking down into the valley, his eyes following the cloud-shadows sweeping silently over the fields, blotting out the silvery gleam of Beaver Creek. It was a day of strange, conflicting thoughts. He had never passed through such an experience in all his simple, primitive life. The impressions of the morning lingered in his memory through the heat of the languid noon and the soft decline of the evening. He had brought upon himself a great question of right and wrong—at least it seemed great to him; so great he could scarcely grapple with it, or settle it with wisdom and justice.
After a supper, partaken almost in silence, he took down his gun and carefully loaded it. Mrs. Hurd watched him until he picked up his hat; then she anxiously inquired: