re ye 'fore ye git them mended,'
says he, and marched him out again. An' sure 'nough old Mis' Fibbetts
got well an' lived ten year after. But she never had a good word for Dr.
Polly Phelps, jest the same," chuckled the narrator.

"Well, we'll make out somehow about fires," said Lyddy, cheerfully, "if
Lucas can cut us enough wood to keep them going."

"I sure can," declared the ever-ready youth, and just here Cyrus
Pritchett, having eaten his fill, broke in upon the conversation in a
tone that quite startled Lyddy and 'Phemie Bray.

"I wanter know what ye mean to do up there on the old Polly Phelps
place?" he asked, pushing back his chair, having set down his coffee-cup
noisily, and wiped his cuff across his lips. "I gotta oral contract
with Jane Hammon' to work that farm. It's been in force year arter year
for more'n ten good year. An' that contract ain't to be busted so easy."

"Now, Father!" admonished Mrs. Pritchett; but the old man glared at her
and she at once subsided.

Cyrus Pritchett certainly was a masterful man in his own household. Lucas
dropped his gaze to his plate and his face flamed again. But Sairy turned
actually pale.

Somehow the cross old man did not make Lyddy Bray tremble. She only felt
angry that he should be such a bully in his own home.

"Suppose you read Aunt Jane's letter, Mr. Pritchett," she said, taking
it from her handbag and laying it before the farmer.

The old man grunted and slit the flap of the envelope with his greasy
tableknife. He drew his brows down into even a deeper scowl as he read.

"So she turns her part of the contract over to you two chits of gals; does
she?" said Mr. Pritchett, at last. "Humph! I don't think much of that, now
I tell ye."

"Mr. Pritchett," said Lyddy, firmly, "if you don't care to work the farm
for us on half shares, as you have heretofore with Aunt Jane, pray say
so. I assure you we will not be offended."

"And what'll you do then?" he growled.

"If you refuse to put in a crop for us?"

"Ya-as."

"Get some other neighboring farmer to do so," replied Lyddy, promptly.

"Oh, you will, eh?" growled Cyrus Pritchett, sitting forward and resting
his big hands on his knees, while he glared like an angry dog at the
slight girl before him.

The kitchen was quite still save for his booming voice. The family was
evidently afraid of the old man's outbursts of temper.

But Lyddy Bray's courage rose with her indignation. This cross old farmer
was a me