It must be admitted that Holcroft enjoyed his triumph over Lemuel Weeks very much after the fashion of the aboriginal man.  Indeed, he was almost sorry he had not been given a little more provocation, knowing well that, had this been true, his neighbor would have received a fuller return for his interested efforts.  As he saw his farmhouse in the shimmering April sunlight, as the old churning dog came forward, wagging his tail, the farmer said, "This is the only place which can ever be home to me.  Well, well!  It's queer about people.  Some, when they go, leave you desolate; others make you happy by their absence.  I never dreamed that silly Mumpson could make me happy, but she has.  Blessed if I don't feel happy!  The first time in a year or more!"  And he began to whistle old "Coronation" in the most lively fashion as he unharnessed his horses.

A little later, he prepared himself a good dinner and ate it in leisurely enjoyment, sharing a morsel now and then with the old dog. "You're a plaguey sight better company than she was," he mused. "That poor little stray cat of a Jane!  What will become of her?  Well, well!  Soon as she's old enough to cut loose from her mother, I'll try to give her a chance, if it's a possible thing."

After dinner, he made a rough draught of an auction bill, offering his cows for sale, muttering as he did so, "Tom Watterly'll help me put it in better shape."  Then he drove a mile away to see old Mr. And Mrs. Johnson.  The former agreed for a small sum to mount guard with his dog during the farmer's occasional absences, and the latter readily consented to do the washing and mending.

"What do I want of any more 'peculiar females,' as that daft widow called 'em?" he chuckled on his return. "Blames if she wasn't the most peculiar of the lot.  Think of me marrying her!" and the hillside echoed to his derisive laugh. "As I feel today, there's a better chance of my being struck by lightning than marrying, and I don't think any woman could do it in spite of me. I'll run the ranch alone."

That evening he smoked his pipe cheerfully beside the kitchen fire, the dog sleeping at his feet. "I declare," he said smilingly, "I feel quite at home."

In the morning, after attending to his work, he went for old Jonathan Johnson and installed him in charge of the premises; then drove to the almshouse with all the surplus butter and eggs on hand.  Tom Watterly arrived at the door with his fast-trotting horse at the same time, and cried, "Hello, Jim!  Just in time.  I'm a sort of grass widower today--been taking my wife out to see her sister.  Come in and take pot luck with me and keep up my spirits."

"Well, now, Tom," said Holcroft, shaking hands, "I'm glad, not that your wife's away, although it does make me downhearted to contrast your lot and mine, but I'm glad you can give me a little time, for I want to use that practical head of yours--some advice, you know."

"All right.  Nothing to do for an hour or two but eat dinner and smoke my pipe with you.  Here, Bill!  Take this team and feed 'em."

"Hold on," said Holcroft, "I'm not going to sponge on you.  I've got some favors to ask, and I want you to take in return some butter half spoiled in the making and this basket of eggs.  They're all right."

"Go to thunder, Holcroft! What do you take me for?  When you've filled your pipe after dinner will you pull an egg out of your pocket and say, 'That's for a smoke?'  No, no, I don't sell any advice to old friends like you.  I'll buy your butter and eggs at what they're worth and have done with 'em.  Business is one thing, and sitting down and talking over an old crony's troubles is another.  I'm not a saint, Jim, as you know--a man in politics can't be--but I remember when we were boys together, and somehow thinking of those old days always fetches me.  Come in, for dinner is a-waiting, I guess."

"Well, Tom, saint or no saint, I'd like to vote for you for gov'nor."

"This aint an electioneering trick, as you know.  I can play them off as well as the next feller when there's need, kiss the babies and all that."

Dinner was placed on the table immediately, and in a few moments the friends were left alone.  Then Holcroft related in a half comic, half serious manner his tribulations with the help.  Tom sat back in his chair and roared at the account of the pitched battle between the two widows and the final smoking out of Mrs. Mumpson, but he reproached his friend for not having horsewhipped Lemuel Weeks. "Don't you remember, Jim, he was a sneaking, tricky chap when we were at school together?  I licked him once, and it always does me good to think of it."

"I own it takes considerable to rile me to the point of striking a man, especially on his own land.  His wife was looking out the window, too.  If we'd been out in the road or anywhere else--but what's the use?  I'm glad now it turned out as it has for I've too much on my mind for lawsuits, and the less one has to do with such cattle as Weeks the better.  Well, you see I'm alone again, and I'm going to go it alone.  I'm going to sell my cows and give up the dairy, and the thing I wanted help in most is the putting this auction bill in shape; also advice as to whether I had better try to sell here in town or up at the farm."

Tom shook his head dubiously and scarcely glanced at the paper. "Your scheme don't look practical to me," he said. "I don't believe you can run that farm alone without losing money.  You'll just keep on going behind till the first thing you know you'll clap a mortgage on it.  Then you'll soon be done for.  What's more, you'll break down if you try to do both outdoor and indoor work.  Busy times will soon come, and you won't get your meals regularly; you'll be living on coffee and anything that comes handiest; your house will grow untidy and not fit to live in.  If you should be taken sick, there'd be no one to do for you.  Lumbermen, hunters, and such fellows can rough it alone awhile, but I never heard of a farm being run by man-power alone.  Now as to selling out your stock, look at it.  Grazing is what your farm's good for mostly.  It's a pity you're so bent on staying there.  Even if you didn't get very much for the place, from sale or rent, you'd have something that was sure.  A strong, capable man like you could find something to turn your hand to.  Then you could board in some respectable family, and not have to live like Robinson Crusoe.  I've thought it over since we talked last, and if I was you I'd sell or rent."

"It's too late in the season to do either," said Holcroft dejectedly. "What's more, I don't want to, at least not this year.  I've settled that, Tom.  I'm going to have one more summer on the old place, anyway, if I have to live on bread and milk."

"You can't make bread."

"I'll have it brought from town on the stage."

"Well, it's a pity some good, decent woman--There, how should I come to forget all about HER till this minute?  I don't know whether it would work.  Perhaps it would.  There's a woman here out of the common run.  She has quite a story, which I'll tell you in confidence.  Then you can say whether you'd like to employ her or not.  If you WILL stay on the farm, my advice is that you have a woman to do the housework, and me and Angy must try to find you one, if the one I have in mind won't answer.  The trouble is, Holcroft, to get the right kind of a woman to live there alone with you, unless you married her.  Nice women don't like to be talked about, and I don't blame 'em.  The one that's here, though, is so friendless and alone in the world that she might be glad enough to get a home almost anywheres."

"Well, well! Tell me about her," said Holcroft gloomily. "But I'm about discouraged in the line of women help."

Watterly told Alida's story with a certain rude pathos which touched the farmer's naturally kind heart, and he quite forgot his own need in indignation at the poor woman's wrongs. "It's a **** shame!" he said excitedly, pacing the room. "I say, Tom, all the law in the land wouldn't keep me from giving that fellow a whipping or worse."

"Well, she won't prosecute; she won't fac............