, "the wust on't was that nobody ever gin me a kind word, 'cept
Polly. I s'pose I got kind o' used to bein' cold an' tired; dressin' in
a snowdrift where it blowed into the attic, an' goin' out to fodder
cattle 'fore sun-up; pickin' up stun in the blazin' sun, an' doin' all
the odd jobs my father set me to, an' the older ones shirked onto me.
That was the reg'lar order o' things; but I remember I never _did_ git
used to never pleasin' nobody. 'Course I didn't expect nothin' f'm my
step-marm, an' the only way I ever knowed I'd done my stent fur 's
father was concerned, was that he didn't say nothin'. But sometimes the
older ones 'd git settin' 'round, talkin' an' laughin', havin' pop corn
an' apples, an' that, an' I'd kind o' sidle up, wantin' to join 'em, an'
some on 'em 'd say, 'What _you_ doin' here? time you was in bed,' an'
give me a shove or a cuff. Yes, ma'am," looking up at Mrs. Cullom, "the
wust on't was that I was kind o' scairt the hull time. Once in a while
Polly 'd give me a mossel o' comfort, but Polly wa'n't but little older
'n me, an' bein' the youngest girl, was chored most to death herself."

It had stopped snowing, and though the wind still came in gusty blasts,
whirling the drift against the windows, a wintry gleam of sunshine came
in and touched the widow's wrinkled face.

"It's amazin' how much trouble an' sorrer the' is in the world, an' how
soon it begins," she remarked, moving a little to avoid the sunlight. "I
hain't never ben able to reconcile how many good things the' be, an' how
little most on us gits o' them. I hain't ben to meetin' fer a long spell
'cause I hain't had no fit clo'es, but I remember most of the preachin'
I've set under either dwelt on the wrath to come, or else on the Lord's
doin' all things well, an' providin'. I hope I ain't no wickeder 'n than
the gen'ral run, but it's putty hard to hev faith in the Lord's
providin' when you hain't got nothin' in the house but corn meal, an'
none too much o' that."

"That's so, Mis' Cullom, that's so," affirmed David. "I don't blame ye a
mite. 'Doubts assail, an' oft prevail,' as the hymn-book says, an' I
reckon it's a sight easier to have faith on meat an' potatoes 'n it is
on corn meal mush. Wa'al, as I was sayin'--I hope I ain't tirin' ye with
my goin's on?"

"No," said Mrs. Cullom, "I'm engaged to hear ye, but nobody 'd suppose
to see ye now that ye was such a f'lorn little critter as you make out."

"It's jest as I'm tellin' ye, a