hings, and mop."

Barnabas puffed fiercely at his pipe for a moment.

"You're a good boy, Dave, a mighty good boy. I don't know what your ma
would do without you. I hed to leave school when I wa'n't as old as
you, and git out and hustle so the younger children could git
eddicated. By the time I wuz foot-loose from farm work, I wuz too old
to git any larnin'. You'd orter manage someway, though, to git
eddicated."

"Mother's taught me to read and write and spell. When I get old enough
to work for good wages I can go into town to the night school."

In a short time M'ri had cooked a dinner that would have tempted less
hearty appetites than those possessed by her brother and David.

"You ain't what might be called a delikit feeder, Dave," remarked
Barnabas, as he replenished the boy's plate for the third time.
"You're so lean I don't see where you put it all."

David might have responded that the vacuum was due to the fact that
his breakfast had consisted of a piece of bread and his last night's
supper of a dish of soup, but the Dunne pride inclined to reservation
on family and personal matters. He speared another small potato and
paused, with fork suspended between mouth and plate.

"Mother says she thinks I am hollow inside like a stovepipe."

"Well, I dunno. Stovepipes git filled sometimes," ruminated his host.

"Leave room for the ice cream, David," cautioned M'ri, as she
descended to the cellar.

The lad's eyes brightened as he beheld the golden pyramid. Another
period of lingering bliss, and then with a sigh of mingled content and
regret, David rose from the table.

"Want me to hook up for you, Mr. Brumble?" he asked, moved to show his
gratitude for the hospitality extended.

"Why, yes, Dave; wish you would. My back is sorter lame to-day. Land
o' livin'," he commented after David had gone to the barn, "but that
boy swallered them potaters like they wuz so many pills!"

"Poor Mrs. Dunne!" sighed M'ri. "I am afraid it's all she can do to
keep a very small pot boiling. I am glad she sent the sorghum, so I
could have an excuse for sending the eggs."

"She hain't poor so long as she hez a young sprout like Dave a-growin'
up. We used to call Peter Dunne 'Old Hickory,' but Dave, he's
second-growth hickory. He's the kind to bend and not break. Jest you
wait till he's seasoned onct."

After she had packed a pail of ice cream for David, gathered some
flowers for Ziny, and made out a memorandum of supplies for