ldren to spend the
summer--but I have Lallite with her dear, happy heart, and I have Mary
and Horton."

The winter day was fast drawing to its close. Horton again appearing,
quietly said: "Supper is sarved."

The old dining-room with its mahogany side-board and dining-table, the
heavy brass candle-sticks, the tall clock in the corner, were all
familiar objects, and the presence of Aunt Mary and Horton, standing
behind the chairs, was a picture of a happier time, with the background
of many glad faces to be filled only with memory.

Shawn sat beside Lallite at the table, and deep down in his heart, he
felt that it was good to be there, and that life was opening to
something dearer than the general happenings of his narrow sphere had
ever given hope for.

With bowed head the Major asked the table blessing. Aunt Mary brought in
the delicious baked apples and poured over them the rich cream. The
Major was carving the guineas. "Lallite, help Shawn to one of those
corn-pones; I'll venture that you'll never get them any better in town.
The last time I was in the city, they brought me something they said was
cornbread, but it was mixed up with molasses, baking-powder and other
things. There are different kinds of cornbread, as you know. There is a
bread called egg-bread, made with meal, buttermilk, lard, soda and eggs,
and there is a mush-bread, made by scalding the meal--some call it
spoon-bread; but the only corn-bread is the pone, and the only way to
make them is to get white flint corn, have it ground at a watermill, if
you can, where they do not bolt the life out of it, scald your meal with
hot water, adding salt, then drain off the water thoroughly and mix your
meal with good, rich, sweet milk, then shove 'em in a hot oven, and
you'll have cornbread that is cornbread. Take one and butter it while it
is hot--don't cut it, break it. There you are. Let me help you to this
guinea breast. Did you ever know anyone who could get the crisp turn
that Mary gets on them?"

"Never, sir," said Doctor Hissong, "I never knew but one woman who could
come anyways near Mary's cooking, and that was Joel Hobson's wife, Lucy.
They used to say that her cooking was her only redeeming feature, for
she had a temper like a wildcat, and vented it upon poor Joel and made
life so miserable for him that he finally took to drink. One night, so
the boys tell it, Joel got too much and was lying out under the big elm
tree, afraid to go home. One of