Yonder. E. H. Young

      He was not ready to tell anyone of his joy in that daily walk, in summer and in winter, when hailstones pounded him in the face, when he was drenched with rain or scorched with sun. Moreover, reserve was not his only reason for silence. It seemed that always his father tried to thwart him, and if he knew how much he loved the hills and the mists and the sunshine, the rare birds and the smell of peat, the getting of knowledge from men who were not afraid of questions and did not roar, then, perhaps, with the perverseness that baffled and angered his son, he would take him from the school. So never a word of pleasure had Alexander let fall, for fear his happiness should be taken from him, and never a word of discontent, because he did not care to lie; but his passion for the hills grew stronger, and his analysis of his father's character became acute.

      "He's like a cat with a pet bird," he thought once. "He's watching it all the time, and hoping the cage-door will open. He knows he oughtn't to kill it—he's been told he mustn't—but he can't stop himself wanting to. That's him all through. He can't stop himself."

      That lack of self-control and its unpleasant results on himself inspired the boy to practice the virtue with all his might. To exercise it, he would go without food when he was hungry, deliberately sniffing at his mother's hot pastry, and refusing to eat of it.

      "If you don't have that, you shall have nothing else. You're getting fussy," his father had said once. His eyes were stormy under brooding brows, but Alexander knew he had the advantage, and he wore his impish look.

      "I'm not, then. I'm learning self-control," he said slowly, and saw his father flinch.

      His appetite was left uncriticized after that, but the relations of cat and bird continued and Alexander saw to it that the cage-door was not opened, developing an annoying habit of always being in the right, or managing to appear so.

      "Don't worry your father, Alec," his mother said.

      "Worry him!" The anger which he found harder to subdue than any hunger showed in his face, and brought more resemblance to his father than either would have cared to see. "How else am I going to live? I've seen wild things in the woods, and they all have weapons, one way or the other. The daft ones just die."

      For a moment her courage seemed to faint, but she straightened her back and spoke with her infectious hopefulness, her determination that all was, or should be, well.

      "He's impatient, I know, but you're a bit of a mule, Alexander. And you're both mine, and I won't let my belongings disagree. You've just got to put up with it."

      "And am I not putting up with it?" he flamed out.

      "Alec, I'll tell you something. Will you understand? It's this way with some women, as perhaps you'll see for yourself some day, when you've a woman of your own. I feel sometimes that you two are both my sons, and I've got to deal fairly by you both, and see that you do fairly by each other. Now you've a bigger will than he has—you've found that out already, and there's no harm in saying it—and it's for you to help, not hinder, him. But mind, he's a better man than you are—yet. It's just that he's weak in some ways. There's no need for you to despise him on that account. Wait till you are tempted or—or see trouble. You're just a baby, you know nothing, and you see fit to judge, when your real business is to be a good son to him, never you mind what he is to you. Call him your brother, and you'll find it easier. Not that I want to make your way easier." She paused. "But I'd strew roses for him. Have you got the geese in?" she added sharply.

      Edward Webb's talk with Alexander was interrupted by Clara's command that the lamp be lighted, and Rutherford's entrance with the coal.

      "We shall have a lot of rain yet," he said.

      "Steep Water's getting fuller every minute," said Alexander. "D'you hear her? She runs underground just behind the house, and out again by the inn. She's roaring."

      "We shall have a fine night of shaking windows, and howling wind, and creaking trees," said Clara, coming from the scullery. "This old house will blow down some day."

      "No, no; it's rooted well."

      Rutherford went to the doorway and stood there and Clara took her sewing to the table, where Alexander already sat under the lamplight.

      "Have you done your lessons?" she asked him.

      "To-morrow'll do."

      "To-night, my son. There might be an earthquake to-morrow, and it would be a pity to leave anything unfinished."

      Edward Webb gave a little chuckle. Great drops of rain hissed on the fire, and Rutherford, beyond the circle of light, began to pace the floor.

      "Jim, I'll play chess with you."

      "I think I'll have to get a breath of air."

      "Not to-night. I shouldn't go out to-night."

      He made no answer, but went to the door again and stood there. Edward Webb could hear him shifting from one foot to another, and he felt in the air a disturbance he could not name. Outside, the wind was shrieking, dashing itself against trees, walls, and counter-winds. It played with the rain, and tried to outcry the steady roaring of the streams. Within there was firelight, Clara sewing, Alexander at his books, and a man growing drowsy in the armchair; but peace was not there, for desire was trying to break through its prison-house, and its struggles could be felt.

      Rutherford cleared his throat and again marched to and fro in the gloom. "Well, I think I'll get on my boots," he said, and gave out another cough.

      Clara stitched on, Alexander did not look up, and Edward Webb became aware of more than that striving, imprisoned thing. He felt the contest of human wills. He was afraid to move, lest he should throw the balance to one side or the other, but he could see Clara's face, and he watched it. He thought he saw decision and indecision chasing each other there before she laid her work in her lap and spoke to Rutherford.

      "I wish you'd go to Janet's for me, Jim."

      "Is it important? I wasn't thinking of going that way."

      She hesitated before she answered. "Yes; I'd like you to go."

      "All right, I will if I have time."

      Alexander looked up swiftly, but dropped his chin into his hands again and his eyes to his book.

      "Let me have your pen, Alec." She wrote a note while Rutherford pulled on his boots. "Here, keep it in your pocket." She held out his overcoat, and when he had put it on she laid her hands on his shoulders for an instant. "Come back soon," Edward Webb heard her say softly, and then there was the sound of Rutherford's boots in the yard.

      "Did you see to the geese, Alec?" It was her nightly question.

      "No. I'll do it now."

      "Better take your coat."

      He paused in his passage to the door. "But—oh ay, very well," he said.

      To the pleasant accompaniment of Clara's needle going through the cloth, the storm without, and the crackling of the fire, Edward Webb fell into one of those dozes when the head, after a few warning shakes, falls like lead to the breast, and the sleeper is helplessly conscious of his plight. He could hear the noises still, but now they mingled with his dreams. The small ones were like little voices speaking to him, and the great ones were the very stuff of which adventures could be made. He was chased by a bear with an open mouth and panting breath—but he knew the wind was answerable for that, and he was not afraid—and then a horde of animals was let loose on him—and that was only Alexander getting the fowls in for the night. He could hear his diligent threats and persuasions, and the clatter of his wooden clogs, sudden, alarmed clackings, and the fluttering of wings.

      He sat up, blinked, and smiled at Clara in what he thought was a wakeful manner, but before his lips had straightened themselves his head was down again. Something blotted out the glow of the fire on his face, and he knew it was Clara putting on the kettle. He heard the splutter of the drops that clung to it as they touched the flames. There was a murmuring of voices next, and the sound of it was very soothing now that the