orrowful hymns by day, as she moved about the house, in a voice that
carried a mile. But for all the grimness in her creed, there was not a
being alive with a softer heart. She would have divided her last square
of corn-bread with the wayfarer at her door, without question of his
worth or unworthiness, his dissension, or his faith.

"Mr. Chase was here this afternoon, Joe," said she as the lad began his
supper.

"Well, I suppose he's going to put us out?"

Joe paused in the mixing of gravy and corn-bread--designed to be
conveyed to his mouth on the blade of his knife--and lifted inquiring
eyes to his mother's troubled face.

"No, son; we fixed it up," said she.

"You fixed it up?" he repeated, his eyes beaming with pleasure. "Is he
going to give us another chance?"

"You go on and eat your supper, Joe; we'll talk it over when you're
through. Lands, you must be tired and hungry after workin' so hard all
afternoon!"

He was too hungry, perhaps, to be greatly troubled by her air of
uneasiness and distraction. He bent over his plate, not noting that she
sipped her coffee with a spoon, touching no food. At last he pushed back
with a sigh of repletion, and smiled across at his mother.

"So you fixed it up with him?"

"Yes, I went into a dishonorable deal with Isom Chase," said she, "and I
don't know what you'll say when you hear what's to be told to you,
Joe."

"What do you mean by 'dishonorable deal'?" he asked, his face growing
white.

"I don't know what you'll say, Joe, I don't know what you'll say!"
moaned she, shaking her head sorrowfully.

"Well, Mother, I can't make out what you mean," said he, baffled and
mystified by her strange behavior.

"Wait--I'll show you."

She rose from the table and reached down a folded paper from among the
soda packages and tins on the shelf. Saying no more, she handed it to
him. Joe took it, wonder in his face, spread his elbows, and unfolded
the document with its notarial seal.

Joe was ready at printed matter. He read fast and understandingly, and
his face grew paler as his eyes ran on from line to line. When he came
to the end, where his mother's wavering signature stood above that of
Isom Chase, his head dropped a little lower, his hands lay listlessly,
as if paralyzed, on the paper under his eyes. A sudden dejection seemed
to settle over him, blighting his youth and buoyancy.

Mrs. Newbolt was making out to be busy over the stove. She lifted the
lid of the kettle