will have to learn many times, how to
keep those little lips shut. And the pie will be just as good."

"Thank you, mother," said Hughie. "But I don't want your pie."

"My pie!" said the mother. "Pie isn't good for old women."

"Old women!" said Hughie, indignantly. "You're the youngest and
prettiest woman in the congregation," he cried, and forgetting for the
moment his sense of meanness, he threw his arms round his mother.

"Oh, Hughie, shame on you! What a dreadful flatterer you are!" said his
mother. "Now, run away to your pie, and then to your evening work, my
boy, and we will have a good lesson together after supper."

Hughie ran away, glad to get out of her presence, and seizing the pie,
carried it out to the barn and hurled it far into the snow. He felt sure
that a single bite of it would choke him.

If he could only have seen Foxy any time for the next hour, how gladly
would he have given him back his pistol, but by the time he had fed
his cow and the horses, split the wood and carried it in, and prepared
kindling for the morning's fires, he had become accustomed to his new
self, and had learned his first lesson in keeping his emotions out of
his face. But from that night, and through all the long weeks of the
breaking winter, when games in the woods were impossible by reason
of the snow and water, and when the roads were deep with mud, Hughie
carried his burden with him, till life was one long weariness and dread.

And through these days he was Foxy's slave. A pistol without ammunition
was quite useless. Foxy's stock was near at hand. It was easy to write a
voucher for a penny's worth of powder or caps, and consequently the pile
in Foxy's pencil-box steadily mounted till Hughie was afraid to look at
it. His chance of being free from his own conscience was still remote
enough.

During these days, too, Foxy reveled in his power over his rival, and
ground his slave in bitter bondage, subjecting him to such humiliation
as made the school wonder and Hughie writhe; and if ever Hughie showed
any sign of resentment or rebellion, Foxy could tame him to groveling
submission by a single word. "Well, I guess I'll go down to-night to see
your mother," was all he needed to say to make Hughie grovel again.
For with Hughie it was not the fear of his father's wrath and heavy
punishment, though that was terrible enough, but the dread that his
mother should know, that made him grovel before his tyrant, and wake at
night