his summer afternoon sat on the front porch,
plying her deft needle, while the waning twilight lasted, with Bridget
inside preparing the evening meal.

"I think that is true, father," was her gentle reply.

"And that boy hates the stone business and I can't understand why he
should."

"Isn't it also true, father, that one cannot control his likes and
dislikes? Tim has told me he can't bear the thought of spending his
life in getting out great blocks of stone and trimming them into shape
for building. He said he wished he could feel as you do, but there's
no use of his trying."

"Fudge!" was the impatient exclamation; "what business has a boy of his
years to talk or think about what sort of business he prefers? It is
my place to select his future avocation and his to accept it without a
growl."

"He will do that, father."

"Of course he will," replied the parent with a compression of his thin
lips and a flash of his eyes; "when I yield to a boy fourteen years
old, it will be time to shift me off to the lunatic asylum."

"Why, then, are you displeased, since he will do what you wish and do
it without complaint?

"I am displeased because he is dissatisfied and has no heart in his
work. He shows no interest in anything relating to the quarries and it
is becoming worse every day with him."

"Didn't he help this forenoon?"

"Yes, because I told him he must be on hand as soon as he was through
breakfast and not leave until he went to dinner."

"Did you say nothing about his working this afternoon?"

"No; I left that out on purpose to test him."

"What was the result?"

"I haven't seen hide or hair of him since; I suppose he is off in the
woods or up in his room, reading or figuring on some invention. Do you
know where he is?"

"He has been in his room almost all the afternoon and is there now."

"Doing what?"

"I guess you have answered that question," replied Maggie laying aside
her sewing because of the increasing shadows, and looking across at her
father with a smile.

"That's what makes me lose all patience. What earthly good is it for
him to sit in his room drawing figures of machines he dreams of making,
or scribbling over sheets of paper? If this keeps up much longer, he
will take to writing poetry, and the next thing will be smoking
cigarettes and then his ruin will be complete."

Maggie's clear laughter rang out on the summer air. She was always
overflowing with spirits and the pictur