Jerome, out in the yard, took his sister by both arms, piteously slender and cold through their thin gingham sleeves, and shook her hard, and shook her again.

“Jerome Edwards, what—­you doin’—­so—­for?” she gasped.

“’Ain’t you got anything to you?  ’Ain’t you got anything to you at all?” said Jerome, fiercely.

“I—­don’t know what you mean!  Don’t, Jerome—­don’t!  Oh, Jerome, I’m ’fraid you’re crazy, like mother?”

“’Ain’t you got enough to you,” said Jerome, still shaking her as if she had not spoken, “to control your feelin’s and do up the housework nice, and not kill mother?”

“Yes, I will—­I’ll be just as good as I can.  You know I will.  Don’t, Jerome!  I ‘ain’t cried before mother this mornin’.  You know I ’ain’t.”

“You cried loud enough, just now in the shed, so she could hear you.”

“I won’t again.  Don’t, Jerome!”

“You’re ’most a grown-up woman,” said Jerome, ceasing to shake his sister, but holding her firm, and looking at her with sternly admonishing eyes.  “You’re ’most as old as I be, and I’ve got to take care of you all.  It’s time you showed it if there’s anything to you.”

“Oh, Jerome, you look just like father,” whispered Elmira, suddenly, with awed, fascinated eyes on his face.

“Now you go in and wash up the dishes, and sweep the kitchen, and make up the beds, and don’t you cry before mother or say anything to pester her,” said Jerome.

“What you goin’ to do, Jerome?” Elmira asked, timidly.

“I’m goin’ to take care of the horse and finish plantin’ them beans first.”

“What you goin’ to do then?”

“Somethin’—­you wait and see.”  Jerome spoke with his first betrayal of boyish weakness, for a certain importance crept into his tone.

Elmira instinctively recognized it, and took advantage of it.  “Ain’t you goin’ to ask mother, Jerome Edwards?” she said.

“I’m goin’ to do what’s best,” answered Jerome; and again that uncanny gravity of authority which so awed her was in his face.

When he again bade her go into the house and do as he said, she obeyed with a longing, incredulous look at him.

Jerome had not eaten much breakfast; indeed, he had not finished when Elmira had beckoned him out.  But he said to himself that he did not want any more—­he would go straight about his tasks.

Jerome, striking out through the dewy wind of foot-path towards the old barn, heard suddenly a voice calling him by name.  It was a voice as low and heavy as a man’s, but had a nervous feminine impulse in it.  “Jerome!” it called.  “Jerome Edwards!”

Jerome turned, and saw Paulina Maria coming up the road, walking with a firm, swaying motion of her whole body from her feet, her cotton draperies blowing around her like sheathing-leaves.

Jerome stood still a minute, watching her; then he went back to the house, to the door, and stationed himself before it.  He stood there like a sentinel when Paulina Maria drew near.  The meaning of war was in his shoulder, his expanded boyish chest, his knitted brows, set chin and mouth, and unflinching eyes; he needed only a sword or gun to complete the picture.