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“Hello!” he said. “What are you doing?”

“Algebra,” replied Paul. are you doing?”

“Algebra,” replied Paul.

“Algebra!” repeated Edgar curiously. Then he passed on with a laugh. Paul took a bite at his forgotten apple, looked at the miserable cabbages in the garden, pecked into lace by the fowls, and he wanted to pull them up. Then he glanced at Miriam. She was poring over the book, seemed absorbed in it, yet trembling lest she could not get at it. It made him cross. She was ruddy and beautiful. Yet her soul seemed to be intensely supplicating. The algebra-book she closed, shrinking, knowing he was angered; and at the same instant he grew gentle, seeing her hurt because she did not understand.

But things came slowly to her. And when she held herself in a grip, seemed so utterly humble before the lesson, it made his blood rouse. He stormed at her, got ashamed, continued the lesson, and grew furious again, abusing her. She listened in silence. Occasionally, very rarely, she defended herself Her liquid dark eyes blazed at him.

“You don’t give me time to learn it,” she said.

“All right,” he answered, throwing the book on the table and lighting a cigarette. Then, after a while, he went back to her repentant. So the lessons went. He was always either in a rage or very gentle.

“What do you tremble your soul before it for?” he cried. “You don’t learn algebra with your blessed soul. Can’t you look at it with your clear simple wits?”

Often, when he went again into the kitchen, Mrs. Leivers would look at him reproachfully, saying:

“Paul, don’t be so hard on Miriam. She may not be quick, but I’m sure she tries.”

“I can’t help it,” he said rather pitiably. “I go off like it.”

“You don’t mind me, Miriam, do you?” he asked of the girl later.

“No,” she reassured him in her beautiful deep tones—“no, I don’t mind.”

“Don’t mind me; it’s my fault.”

But, in spite of himself, his blood began to boil with her. It was strange that no one else made him in such fury. He flared against her. Once he threw the pencil in her face. There was a silence. She turned her face slightly aside.

“I didn’t——” he began, but got no farther, feeling weak in all his bones. She never reproached him or was angry with him. He was often cruelly ashamed. But still again his anger burst like a bubble surcharged;da and still, when he saw her eager, silent, as it were, blind face, he felt he wanted to throw the pencil in it; and still, when he saw her hand trembling and her mouth parted with suffering, his heart was scalded with pain for her. And because of the intensity to which she roused him, he sought her.

Then he often avoided her and went with Edgar. Miriam and her brother were naturally antagonistic. Edgar was a rationalist, who was curious, and had a sort of scientific interest in life. It was a great bitterness to Miriam to see herself deserted by Paul for Edgar, who seemed so much lower. But the youth was very happy with her elder brother. The two men spent afternoons together on the land or in the loft doing carpentry, when it rained. And they talked together, or Paul taught Edgar the songs he himself had learned from Annie at the piano. And often all the men, Mr. Leivers as well, had bitter debates on the nationalizing of the land and similar problems.12 Paul had already heard his mother’s views, and as these were as yet his own, he argued for her. Miriam attended and took part, but was all the time waiting until it should be over and a personal communication might begin.

“After all,” she said within herself, “if the land were nationalized, Edgar and Paul and I would be just the same.” So she waited for the youth to come back to her.

He was studying for his painting. He loved to sit at home, alone with his mother, at night, working and working. She sewed or read. Then, looking up from his task, he would rest his eyes for a moment on her face, that was bright with living warmth, and he returned gladly to his work.

“I can do my best things when you sit there in your rocking-chair, mother,” he said.

“I’m sure!” she exclaimed,