ll die of loneliness, but--you must have a chance."

"Thank you, mother! And as soon as I can earn enough you shall come to
live with me."

"I shall come anyway before very long, dearie. I worked for other
people before I was married. I can do it again."

She laughed a little, but on her cheeks tears glistened in the
moonlight.

Then, suddenly, they were aware that Grandpa Walker was approaching
them. He was coming up the road, talking to himself as was his custom
when alone, especially if his mind was ill at ease. And his mind was
not wholly at ease to-night. The readiness with which Pen had, that
day, accepted a suggestion of employment elsewhere, had given him
something of a turn. He could not contemplate, with serenity, the
prospect of resuming the burdens of which his grandson had, for the
last two months, relieved him. To become again a "hewer of wood and
drawer of water" for his family was a prospect not wholly to his
liking. He became suddenly aware that two people were standing at his
gate in the moonlight. He stopped in the middle of the road, to look
at them inquiringly.

"It's I, father!" his daughter called out to him. "Pen and I. We've
been waiting for you."

"Eh? Waitin' for me?" he asked.

"Yes, Pen has something he wants to say to you."

The old man crossed over to the roadside fence and leaned on it. The
announcement was ominous. He looked sharply at Pen.

"Well," he said. "I'm listenin'."

"Grandpa," began Pen, "I want you to be willing that I should take
that job that Mr. Starbird spoke about to-day."

"So, that's it, is it? Ye've got the rovin' bee a buzzin' in your
head, have ye? Don't ye know 't 'a rollin' stone gethers no moss'?"

"Well, grandpa, I'm not contented here. Not but what you're good
enough to me, and all that, but I'm unhappy here. And I saw Mr.
Starbird again this afternoon, and he said I could have that job."

"Think a job in a mill's better'n a job on a farm?"

"I think it is for me, grandpa."

"Work too hard for ye here?"

"Why, I'm not complaining about the work being hard. It's just because
farm work does not suit me."

"Don't suit most folks 'at ain't inclined to dig into it."

Then Pen's mother spoke up.

"Now, father," she said, "you know Pen's done a man's work since he's
been here, and he's never whimpered about it. And it isn't quite fair
for you to insinuate that he's been lazy."

"I ain't insinuatin' nothin'," replied the old man, doggedly. "I a