you could. Cass, she sont some th’ chick’n fry.” He thrust the basket at Thryng and turned to run home.

“Here, here!” David called after the twisted, hunched little figure. “You tell your sister ‘thank you very much,’ for me. Will you?”

“Yas, suh,” and the queer little gnome disappeared among the laurel below.

In the morning, David found the place of the Widow Timms, and her son agreed to come down the next day and accept wages for work. A weary, spiritless young man he was, and the home as poverty-stricken as was that of Decatur Irwin, and with almost as many children. It was with a feeling of depression that David rode on after his call, leaving the grandmother seated in the doorway,