art
of the farm when I'd done with it? Who in consarnation ever gives
their son wages?"

"But, father, you told him if he married her he was never to have
the farm--that you'd leave it to Sid, that he was to get right off
the day he married her."

"An' Sid'll get it--bet yer life he will--fer I ain't got no son
no more. A sneakin' hulk that leaves me with my wheat standin' an'
goes over to help that Methodist of a Willson is no son of mine.
I ain't never had a son, and you ain't, neither; remember that,
Marthy--don't you ever let me ketch you goin' a-near them. We're
done with Sam an' his missus. You jes' make a note of that." And
old Billy flung out to his fields like a general whose forces had
fled.

It was but a tiny, two-room shack, away up in the back lots, that
Sam was able to get for Della, but no wayfarer ever passed up the
side road but they heard her clear, young voice singing like a
thrush; no one ever met Sam but he ceased whistling only to greet
them. He proved invaluable to Mr. Willson, for after the harvest
was in and the threshing over, there was the root crop and the
apple crop, and eventually Mr. Willson hired him for the entire
year. Della, to the surprise of the neighborhood, kept on with her
school until Christmas.

"She's teachin' instid of keepin' Sam's house, jes' to git money
fer finery, you bet!" sneered old Billy. But he never knew that
every copper for the extra term was put carefully away, and was
paid out for a whole year's rent in advance on a gray little
two-room house, and paid by a very proud little yellow-haired bride.
She had insisted upon this before her marriage, for she laughingly
said, "No wife ever gets her way afterwards."

"I'm not good at butter-making, Sam," she said, "but I _can_ make
money teaching, and for this first year _I_ pay the rent." And she
did.

And the sweet, brief year swung on through its seasons, until
one brown September morning the faint cry of a little human lamb
floated through the open window of the small gray house on the
back lots. Sam did not go to Willson's to work that day, but
stayed home, playing the part of a big, joyful, clumsy nurse, his
roughened hands gentle and loving, his big rugged heart bursting
with happiness. It was twilight, and the gray shadows were creeping
into the bare little room, touching with feathery fingers a tangled
mop of yellow curls that aureoled a pillowed head that was not now
filled with thoughts of Tennyson a