THE STEADFAST HEART
heard on rare occasions, but whom she had not seen since babyhood—a shadow of a father becoming material to her only as inked words upon paper…. Angus halted, hesitated, turned, but the sight and thought of Lydia stiffened him to resolution while her words repeated themselves in his ear. “Stand up for yourself!… Why don’t you stand up for yourself?” So Angus persisted on his way doggedly.
Young Crane’s mischief-seeking eyes were quick to see him, quick to light with the hunting gleam of boyhood. He cast sidewise a calculating glance at Lydia, and for safety’s sake edged a few steps away. Then, jeeringly, tauntingly, he shouted, “Murderer!… Jailbird!…”
Angus walked steadily ahead. One might have reasoned that he did not hear. His cheeks were a trifle pale, but there was about his mouth an expression which in maturity might become fine determination. Close to young Crane he stopped, eyes bright, face almost animated by the working of the great idea within, and he spoke—not loudly, not excitedly with trembling voice, but rather doggedly, phlegmatically; he spoke as one who has taken a task in hand which he does not understand save in the aspect that it must be done.
“I got to stand up for myself,” he said. “You
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