lked very softly
over to the two sleeping children, lifted them, and bore them to her own
bed. Then she went back to her son.

"Lars," she said, as if she did not see that he was weeping, "you had
better let me keep these children."

"What, mother?" he gasped, trying to smother the sobs.

"I have been suffering for years--ever since father took the cabin from
their mother, and so have you."

"Yes, but--"

"I want to keep them here and make something of them; they are too good
to beg."

He could not speak, for now the tears were beyond his control; but he
took his old mother's withered hand and patted it.

Then he jumped up, as if something had frightened him.

"What would father have said of this?"

"Father had his day at ruling," retorted the mother. "Now it is your
day. As long as father lived we had to obey him. Now is the time to show
what you are."

Her son was so astonished that he ceased crying.

"But I have just shown what I am!" he returned.

"No, you haven't," protested the mother. "You only try to be like him.
Father experienced hard times, which made him fear poverty. He believed
that he had to think of himself first. But you have never had any
difficulties that should make you hard. You have more than you need, and
it would be unnatural of you not to think of others."

When the two little girls entered the house the boy slipped in behind
them and secreted himself in a dark corner. He had not been there long
before he caught a glimpse of the shed key, which the farmer had thrust
into his coat pocket.

"When the master of the house drives the children out, I'll take the key
and ran," he thought.

But the children were not driven out and the boy crouched in the corner,
not knowing what he should do next.

The mother talked long with her son, and while she was speaking he
stopped weeping. Gradually his features softened; he looked like another
person. All the while he was stroking the wasted old hand.

"Now we may as well retire," said the old lady when she saw that he was
calm again.

"No," he said, suddenly rising, "I cannot retire yet. There's a stranger
without whom I must shelter to-night!"

He said nothing further, but quickly drew on his coat, lit the lantern
and went out. There were the same wind and chill without, but as he
stepped to the porch he began to sing softly. He wondered if the horse
would know him, and if he would be glad to come back to his old stable.

As he cros