eem hungrier than their bodies. He was rocking a
baby in an old cradle. "There's Ben," continued the blind man, "he's as
peart a boy as you ever see, preacher Blake, ef I do say it as hadn't
orter say it. Bennie hain't got no clothes. I can't beg. But Ben orter be
in school." Here Peter Sitles choked a little.

"How's broom-making Peter?" said the minister.

"Well, you see, it's the machines as is a-spoiling us. The machines makes
brooms cheap, and what can a blind feller like me do agin the machines
with nothing but my fingers? 'Tain't no sort o' use to butt my head agin
the machines, when I ain't got no eyes nother. It's like a goat trying it
on a locomotive. Ef I could only eddicate Peter and the other two, I'd be
satisfied. You see, I never had no book-larnin' myself, and I can't talk
proper no more'n a cow can climb a tree."

"But, Mr. Sitles, how much would a broom-machine cost you?" asked the
minister.

"More'n it's any use to think on. It'll cost seventy dollars, and if it
cost seventy cents 'twould be jest exactly seventy cents more'n I could
afford to pay. For the money my ole woman gits fer washin' don't go
noways at all towards feedin' the four children, let alone buying me a
machine."

The minister looked at his cane, but it did not answer him. Something
must be done. The minister was sure of that. Perhaps the walking-stick
was, too. But what?

That was the question.

The minister told Sitles good-by, and started to make other visits. And
on the way the cane kept crying out, "Something _must_ be done--something
MUST be done--something MUST be done," making the _must_ ring out sharper
every time. When Mr. Blake and the walking-stick got to the market-house,
just as they turned off from Milk Street into the busier Main Street, the
cane changed its tune and begun to say, "But what--but _what_--but
WHAT--but WHAT," until it said it so sharply that the minister's head
ached, and he put Old Ebony under his arm, so that it couldn't talk any
more. It was a way he had of hushing it up when he wanted to think.

II.

LONG-HEADED WILLIE.

"De biskits is cold, and de steaks is cold as--as--ice, and dinner's
spiled!" said Curlypate, a girl about three years old, as Mr. Blake came
in from his forenoon of visiting. She tried to look very much vexed and
"put out," but there was always either a smile or a cry hidden away in
her dimpled cheek.

"Pshaw!