reached by pegs stuck the centre post. In that garret the
children slept. Tom's building zeal had come to an end with the bed.
Some day he meant to fit in a door and windows, but these luxuries could
wait till he got his clearing in better order.

On a stool by the bed stood a wooden bowl containing gruel. The woman
had not eaten for days, and the stuff had a thick scum on it. The place
was very stuffy, for it was a hot and sickly autumn day and skins which
darkened the window holes kept out the little freshness that was in the
air. Beside the gruel was a tin pannikin of cold water which the boy Abe
fetched every hour from the spring. She saw the water, but was too weak
to reach it.

The shining doorway was blocked by a man's entrance. Tom Linkhorn was a
little over middle height, with long muscular arms, and the corded neck
sinews which tell of great strength. He had a shock of coarse black
hair, grey eyes and a tired sallow face, as of one habitually overworked
and underfed. His jaw was heavy, but loosely put together, so that he
presented an air of weakness and irresolution. His lips were thick and
pursed in a kind of weary good humour. He wore an old skin shirt and
a pair of towlinen pants, which flapped about his bare brown ankles. A
fine sawdust coated his hair and shoulders, for he had been working in
the shed where he eked out his farming by making spinning wheels for his
neighbours.

He came softly to the bedside and looked down at his wife. His face was
gentle and puzzled.

"Reckon you're better, dearie," he said in a curious harsh toneless
voice.

The sick woman moved her head feebly in the direction of the stool and
he lifted the pannikin of water to her lips.

"Cold enough?" he asked, and his wife nodded. "Abe fetches it as reg'lar
as a clock."

"Where's Abe?" she asked, and her voice for all its feebleness had a
youthful music in it.

"I heerd him sayin' he was goin' down to the crick to cotch a fish. He
reckoned you'd fancy a fish when you could eat a piece. He's a mighty
thoughtful boy, our Abe. Then he was comin' to read to you. You'd like
that, dearie?"

The sick woman made no sign. Her eyes were vacantly regarding the
doorway.

"I've got to leave you now. I reckon I'll borrow the Dawneys' sorrel
horse and ride into Gentryville. I've got the young hogs to sell, and
I'll fetch back the corn-meal from Hickson's. Sally Hickson was just
like you last fall, and I want to find out from Jim how