red the pail and books before Joe could appropriate them. He
wasn't going to be cut out a second time in one day.

"Miss Williams," asked the young ranchman, "will your knowledge of
mathematics tell me how many yards of black silk I must get to make a
dress, and what kind of fixings I shall need for it?"

"You don't have to know," she replied. "Just go into any department
store and tell them you want a dress pattern and the findings. They
will do the rest."

"Shopping made easy. You shall have your reward now. My shanty boat is
just about opposite here. Suppose the four of us go down to the river
and have supper on board?"

Little Teacher, to whom life was a vista of blackboards dotted with
vacations, thought this would be delightful. A passing child was made
a messenger to the farm, and they continued their way woodward to the
river, where the shanty boat was anchored. Little Teacher set the
table, Joe prepared the meal, while David sat out on deck, beguiling
Janey with wonderful stories.

"This seems beautifully domestic to a cowboy," sighed Joe, looking
around the supper table, his gaze lingering on Little Teacher, who was
dimpling happily. Imaginative David proceeded to weave his third
romance that day, with a glad little beating of the heart, for he had
feared that Joe might be planning to wait for Janey, as the Judge was
doubtless waiting for M'ri.

The children went directly home after supper, Joe accompanying Little
Teacher. Despite the keenness of David's sorrow the day had been a
peaceful, contented one, but when the shadows began to lengthen to
that most lonesome hour of lonesome days, when from home-coming cows
comes the sound of tinkling bells, a wave of longing swept over him,
and he stole away to the orchard. Again, a soft, sustaining little
hand crept into his.

"Don't, Davey," pleaded a caressing voice, "don't make me cry."

CHAPTER IV

Outside of the time allotted for the performance of a wholesome amount
of farm work and the preparation of his daily lessons, David was free
for diversions which had hitherto entered sparingly into his life.
After school hours and on Saturdays the Barnabas farm was the general
rendezvous for all the children within a three-mile radius. The old
woods by the river rang with the gay treble of childish laughter and
the ecstatic barking of dogs dashing in frantic pursuit. There was
always an open sesame to the cookie jar and the apple barrel.

David suffe