om the mantel, filled it and
lighted it, and went over and deposited his somewhat ponderous body in
a cushioned chair by the window. Pen's mother and aunt pushed the
wheel-chair in which Grandma Walker sat, to one side of the room, and
began to clear the dishes from the table.

"Well," said the old man, between his puffs of smoke, "now ye're here,
what ye goin' to do here?"

"Anything you have for me to do, grandpa," replied Pen.

"I don't see's I can send ye to school."

"I'd rather not go to school. I'd rather work--do chores, anything."

"All right! I guess we can keep ye from rustin'. They's plenty to do,
and I ain't so soople as I was at sixty."

He looked the embodiment of physical comfort, with his round, fresh
face, and the fringe of gray whiskers under his chin, as he sat at
ease in his big chair by the window, puffing lazily at his pipe.

So Pen stayed. There was no doubt but that he earned his keep. He did
chores. He chopped wood. He brought water from the well. He fed the
horse and the cows, the chickens and the pigs. He drove Old Charlie in
the performance of any work requiring the assistance of a horse. He
was busy from morning to night. He slept in a cold room, he was up
before daylight, he was out in all kinds of weather, he did all kinds
of tasks. There were sore muscles and aching bones, indeed, before he
had hardened himself to his work; for physical labor was new to him;
but he never shirked nor complained. Moreover he was treated kindly,
he had plenty to eat, and he shared in whatever diversions the family
could afford. Then, too, he had his mother to comfort him, to cheer
him, to sympathize with him, and to be, ever more and more, his
confidante and companion.

And Grandpa Walker, relieved of nearly all laborious activities about
the place, much to his enjoyment, spent his time reading, smoking and
dozing through the days of late winter and early spring, and
discussing politics and big business in the country store at the
cross-roads of an evening.

One afternoon, about the middle of March, as the old man was rousing
himself from his after-dinner nap, two men drove up to the Walker
homestead, tied their horse at the gate, came up the path to the house
and knocked at the door. He, himself, answered the knock.

"Yes," he said in response to their inquiry, "I'm Enos Walker, and I'm
to hum."

The spokesman of the two was a tall young man with a very black
moustache and a merry twinkle in