in't
findin' no fault with what he's done sence he's been here; I'm just
gittin' at what he thinks he's goin' to do." He turned again to Pen.
"Made up yer mind to go, hev ye?"

"Yes, grandpa."

"When?"

"Next Monday morning."

"Wuther I'm willin' or no?"

"I want you to be willing."

"I say, wuther I'm willin' or no?"

In the moonlight the old man's face bore a look of severity that
augured ill for any happy completion to Pen's plan. A direct question
had been asked, and it called for a direct answer. And with the answer
would come the clash of wills. Pen felt it coming, and, although he
was apprehensive to the verge of alarm, he braced himself to meet it
calmly. His answer was frank, and direct.

"Yes, grandpa."

"Well, I'm willin'."

"Why, grandpa!"

"Father! you old dear!" from Pen's mother.

"I say I'm willin'," repeated the old man. "I hed hoped 't Pen'd stay
here to hum an' help me out with the farm work. I ain't so soople as I
use to be. An' Mirandy's man's got a stiddy job a-teamin'. An' the boy
seemed to take to the work natural, and I thought he liked it, and I
rested easy and took my comfort till Robert Starbird put that notion
in his head to-day. Sence then I ain't had no hope."

"I'm sorry to leave you, grandpa, and it's awfully good of you to let
me go, and you know I wouldn't go if I thought I could possibly stay
and be contented."

"I understand. It's the same with most young fellers. They see suthin'
better away from hum. And I ain't willin' to stand in the way o' no
young feller that thinks he can better himself some'eres else. When I
was fifteen I wanted to go down to Chestnut Hill and work in Sampson's
planin' factory; but my father wouldn't let me. Consekence is I never
got spunk enough agin to leave the farm. So I ain't goin' to stand in
nobody else's way, you can go Monday mornin' or any other mornin', and
I'll just say God bless ye, an' good luck to ye, an' start in agin on
the chores."

Then Pen's mother, like a girl still in her sympathies and impulses,
flung her arms around her father's neck, and hugged him till he was
positively obliged to use force to release himself. And they all
walked up the path together in the moonlight, and entered the house
and told Grandma Walker and Aunt Miranda of Pen's contemplated
departure, to which Grandpa Walker, with martyrlike countenance, added
the story of his own unhappy prospect.

When Monday morning came Pen was up long before hi