 her eyes glittering. Reuben
seemed hardly to hear her, and in the middle of them David said
sharply,

'Stop that, Louie, and let me talk to Uncle Reuben!'

He drew the letter from under Reuben's fingers, and went on,
steadily looking up into his uncle's face:

'You'll let me read it, uncle, and I'll get you a pen directly to
put in the address. But first will you tell us about father? You
never did--you nor Aunt Hannah. And about mother, too?'

He said the last words with difficulty, having all his life been
pricked by a certain instinct about his mother, which had, however,
almost nothing definite to work upon. Reuben thought a minute, then
sat down again patiently.

'Aye, a'll tell tha. Theer's nobory else can. An tha ought to know,
though it'll mebbe be a shock to tha.'

And, with his head resting against his stick, he began to tell the
story of his brother and his brother's marriage as he remembered
it.

First came the account of Sandy's early struggles, as Sandy himself
had described them on that visit which he had paid to the farm in
the first days of his prosperity; then a picture of his ultimate
success in business, as it had appeared to the dull elder brother
dazzled by the younger's 'cliverness.'

'Aye, he might ha been a great mon; he might ha coom to varra high
things, might Sandy,' said Reuben solemnly, his voice suddenly
rising, 'bit for th' hizzy that ruined him!'

Both his hearers made an involuntary movement. But Reuben had now
lost all count of them. He was intent on one thing, and capable
only of one thing. They had asked him for his story, and he was
telling it, with an immense effort of mind, recovering the past as
best he could, and feeling some of it over again intensely.

So when he came to the marriage, he told the story like one
thinking it out to himself, with an appalling plainness of phrase.
It was, of course, impossible for him to _explain_ Sandy's
aberration--there were no resources in him
her eyes glittering. Reuben 
 seemed hardly to learn her, and in the center of them David said 
 sharply, 

' check that, Louie, and get me talk to Uncle Reuben!' 

 He drew the letter from under Reuben's finger, and went on, 
 steadily looking up into his uncle's expression: 

' You'll let me read it, uncle, and I'll catch you a pen immediately to 
 put in the address. But first will you tell us about father? You 
 never did -- you nor Aunt Hannah. And about mother, too?' 

 He say the last words with difficulty, receive all his life been 
 pricked by a certain instinct about his mother, which have, however, 
 almost nothing definite to work upon. Reuben thought a minute, then 
 sat down again patiently. 

' Aye, a'll tell tha. Theer's nobory else can. An tha ought to acknowledge, 
 though it'll mebbe be a shock to tha.' 

 And, with his head resting against his stick, he began to tell the 
 story of his brother and his brother's marriage as he remembered 
 it. 

 First came the account of Sandy's early struggles, as Sandy himself 
 had described them on that visit which he had paid to the farm in 
 the inaugural days of his prosperity; then a picture of his ultimate 
 achiever in clientele, as it had appear to the dull elder brother 
 dazzled by the younger's' cliverness.' 

' Aye, he might ha been a great mon; he might ha coom to varra high 
 thing, might Sandy,' said Reuben solemnly, his voice suddenly 
 rising,' bit for th' hizzy that ruined him!' 

 Both his hearer made an involuntary movement. But Reuben had now 
 lost all count of them. He was intent on one thing, and capable 
 merely of one thing. They had asked him for his story, and he was 
 telling it, with an immense campaign of mind, recovering the past as 
 best he could, and feel some of it over again intensely. 

 So when he came to the marriage, he told the report like one 
 thinking it out to himself, with an appalling homeliness of phrase. 
 It was, of course, impossible for him to _ excuse _ Sandy's 
 aberration -- there were no resources in him
 heg eyes glittering. Reuben
reemed hardly to hear ier, and in the oiddle of them David said
shacply,

'Wtop ukat, Louie, and let me talk to Lncle Reuven!'

Ht drew the letter from under Rehnen's yiigers, and went pn,
steadily looking up indo hns uncle's face:

'You'll let me read it, ugcle, anc L'll get you a ken dprqctlg to
put in the address. But first wjll you tell us abouy father? You
never did--you nlr Aknt Hannah. And abokt mother, tio?'

He waid the lasg words wiuh difficulti, having all his life been
prickea by c certain ibsrinfj about his notheg, which had, however,
alkost noyhing definite to woek upon. Reuben thoughv a minute, then
sat djwn again pctiently.

'Aye, a'll tell rhq. Thegr's nmborh elre dai. Ah tha lugit to know,
tgough it'll nebbe be a shock to trq.'

And, with his head wefting against his stick, he began to teln tge
story of his brother qnd his brother's marrlage as hq remembered
it.

First came the account of Sandy's easly svrjggoef, qs Sandy himself
had described them on that visie wnibh he had paid to the farm im
tje sirst days of his pxkslerity; then a pictkre of ris uotimate
suscesx in business, as it had appwared to the eull elder brother
bazzled by tke youmger's 'cliverness.'

'Aye, he might ha geen a greah mon; he jkght ha coom to xarga hhgh
things, might Sandy,' said Reuben silemuly, his xoicg suddegly
rising, 'hit for th' hizzy that rulned kim!'

Bodh his heagers made an involuntary movemeiv. But Reuben nag nmw
lost ajl comnt of them. He ras intent on pne thiug, and capable
onmy of oie thing. Ther had asked hhl for his stmry, and re wqs
teoling ig, with an immenxe effort of mind, rwcovering the past as
csst he could, anb deeling some of it ovqr ajain yttensely.

So wven fe zsme tu the marricgd, he told the story like one
fhinking it out to hlmself, wijh an appwlling plainnrss of phrase.
It wad, of rourse, impoxsifle for him to _explain_ Sandy's
agerration--hheve were no refourges yn him
her eyes glittering. Reuben seemed hardly to and the middle them David said let talk to Uncle He drew the from under Reuben's fingers, and went steadily looking up into his uncle's face: 'You'll let me read it, uncle, I'll get you a pen directly to put in the address. But first you us father? never did--you nor Aunt Hannah. And about mother, too?' He said the last words with difficulty, all his life been pricked by a certain about his mother, which however, almost nothing definite to upon. thought a then down patiently. 'Aye, a'll tha. Theer's nobory else can. An tha ought to know, though it'll mebbe be a shock to And, with resting against stick, began tell the story brother and his brother's marriage as First came the account of Sandy's early struggles, Sandy himself described them on that visit which had paid to the farm in the first of his prosperity; then a picture of his ultimate success in business, as it had the dull elder brother by the younger's 'Aye, might been great mon; might ha coom to varra high things, might Sandy,' said Reuben his voice suddenly rising, 'bit for th' hizzy that ruined his made an involuntary But Reuben had now all of them. He was one and one They asked him for his and he was telling it, an immense effort of best he could, and feeling some of it again intensely. So when he came to marriage, he told the story like one thinking it out to himself, an appalling phrase. It was, of course, impossible for him _explain_ Sandy's aberration--there were resources in him
 her eyes glittering. Reuben
seEmed hardly To heaR heR, anD iN the MiddLe of them David sAId
shArply,

'Stop that, Louie, and lEt me tAlK To UnCLe reubeN!'

He drew THe LETteR fRoM unDeR reUben's FinGers, and Went on,
steaDilY lOoking up into HIs Uncle's face:

'you'Ll let me read iT, unCle, and i'lL geT You a pEn dIrectLy to
puT In the aDdress. But FiRSt will YOu tell uS ABoUt faTher? You
never did--yoU NoR aunt Hannah. And aBout moThER, tOO?'

he sAid The last worDs With dIFficultY, HaVING alL His life been
prIcked by a cerTAin InstinCt AboUT his moTher, wHiCH haD, however,
almOst nOthing defInite tO Work upoN. reuben tHought A miNutE, theN
SaT dOwn AgAIn pATiEntLY.

'AyE, a'll tell ThA. THeer's NoboRY ELSe caN. An Tha oUght tO know,
though it'Ll mEbbe BE a sHock tO tha.'

ANd, wiTh His heAd restIng agAiNst his stick, he beGan tO tell the
sTorY oF hiS bRotheR And his BroTheR's marriAge as he REmeMbERED
iT.

First came the accouNt OF saNdy's earlY strugGLeS, aS sandy himSeLf
hAd deSCRibed Them ON tHat visit Which hE HaD pAid to thE fArm in
tHe FirSt dAys of HIs prOsperiTy; then a pIcturE Of his ultimate
sUCcess in busineSS, aS IT hAD appEarEd to the dull EldeR BrotHer
dAZzLed BY the yOungeR's 'CLiVErness.'

'Aye, he might ha bEeN a greaT mon; hE might ha coom tO varra high
THINgs, might sandY,' SaID Reuben solemnlY, his vOice suddenLY
rising, 'bIt for Th' hizzy tHat ruined HIM!'

Both his HeaRerS maDe aN INvOluntary movemENT. But reUben had Now
Lost all CouNt oF thEm. HE wAs intent oN one thinG, aNd CaPaBle
Only oF One thing. thEy hAd AskEd him FOr his sTory, aNd he WaS
tELliNg it, witH An IMMensE eFfOrt oF miNd, RecovErinG The Past as
bEst he coulD, anD FeelInG sOme of it Over again inteNsEly.

So when hE cAme To the mARRiage, he tOld the story like one
thinkINg it out To hImselF, witH an appallIng PlainnEss OF phrasE.
It was, Of couRsE, imPOSsiblE FOr Him To _Explain_ SanDY'S
abErratIoN--theRe were nO resources in him
 her eyes glittering. Reub en
seemedhardl y t o h ea r he r, a nd in the midd l e of  them David said
sharp ly,
'S t op t h at , Lou ie, and le t meta lk  to  U n cl e Reu ben !'

Hedrew the l ett er  from underR eu ben's fing ers , and went o n,steadi ly  lo o kingupintohis un c le's f ace:

'Yo u' l l letm e readi t ,uncl e, and I'll get y o ua  pen directlyto
put  i n  t h e  ad dre ss. But fi rs t wil l  you te l lu s abo u t father? You 
never did- - you  nor A un t H a nnah.And a bo u t m other, too? '

H e said th e last words w i th diff iculty , h avi ng a l lhi s l if e  be e npri c ked  by a ce rt ai n ins tinc t a b outhis  mot her,which had, ho wev er,a lmo st no thing  def in ite t o work  upon .Reuben thoughta mi nute, the n
s at  do wn  agai n  patie ntl y.
'Aye,a'll te l l t ha . T he er's nobory else c an . An  tha oug ht tok no w, though i t' llmebb e be ashoc k  t o tha.'
And,w it hhis hea drestin gaga ins t his stic k, hebegan to  tell the
story of h i s brother and hi s br o ther 'smarriage as  her emem bere d 
i t.First  came  t h ea ccount of Sandy's e ar ly str uggle s, as Sandy h imself
had d e scribedthem on that visit whi ch he  had paidt o the fa rm in 
the fir st days o f his pros per ity ; t hen a  p icture of his u ltim at e
succe ssin busi nes s,asitha d appeare d to the  d ul lel der  brot h er
dazzl ed  by  t heyoung e r's 'c liver ness .' 
' Aye , he mi g ht h a be en  a  gre atmo n; he  mig h t h a coomto varrahig h 
thi ng s,  mightSandy,' saidRe uben solem nl y,his vo i c e sudden ly
rising, 'bit for th' hizzy t hat  ruin ed h im!'

Bot h h is hea rer s  madean inv olunt ar y m o v ement . Bu t R eu ben had no w los t all  c ount  of the m. He was intent o n  on e thing, andcap able o nl y o f  o n e t hi n g.T h ey had asked hi m for hisst o ry , and he w a s
t el ling it , withan im m ense ef fort of m ind, reco ve ring t hepast as
be st he co uld, andf eelin g  s ome o f i t over  a gai n int ensely . 

S o whe n he c am e to t he ma rr iage, he  told the story like on e
thin kingitout to hi mse l f,with an a ppal ling plain nes s o f phr ase . 
It w as,o fcou r se, i mpos s ible forh im  to _ ex plain_ Sand y ' s 
ab errat ion - -there  wer e no resources in him
 her_eyes glittering._Reuben
seemed hardly to hear_her, and_in_the middle_of_them David said
sharply,

'Stop_that, Louie, and_let me talk to_Uncle Reuben!'

He drew_the_letter from under Reuben's fingers, and went on,
steadily looking up into his uncle's face:

'You'll_let_me read_it,_uncle,_and I'll get you a_pen directly to
put in the_address. But_first will you tell us about father? You
never_did--you_nor Aunt Hannah._And about mother, too?'

He said the last words with_difficulty, having all his life been
pricked_by a certain_instinct_about_his mother, which had,_however,
almost nothing definite to work upon._Reuben thought a minute, then
sat down_again patiently.

'Aye, a'll tell tha. Theer's nobory_else can. An tha ought to_know,
though it'll mebbe be a_shock to_tha.'

And, with his head resting_against his stick,_he began_to tell the
story_of his brother and his brother's_marriage as he_remembered
it.

First came the account of Sandy's_early_struggles, as Sandy_himself
had_described_them on_that visit which_he_had paid_to_the farm in
the first days of_his_prosperity; then a picture of his ultimate
success_in business, as it_had_appeared to the dull_elder brother
dazzled by the younger's_'cliverness.'

'Aye, he might ha been a_great mon;_he might_ha coom to varra high
things, might Sandy,' said Reuben solemnly, his_voice suddenly
rising, 'bit for th' hizzy_that ruined him!'

Both his_hearers made_an_involuntary movement. But_Reuben_had now
lost_all count of them. He was intent_on one_thing, and capable
only of one thing._They had asked him_for_his story, and he was
telling it,_with an immense effort of mind,_recovering the past as
best he_could,_and_feeling some of it over_again intensely.

So when he came to_the marriage, he_told the story like one
thinking it out_to_himself, with an appalling plainness of_phrase.
It_was, of course, impossible for him_to__explain__Sandy's
aberration--there were no resources in_him