? I ain't
ordered nothin' from town."

"I know you haven't. It's one of the baskets from the church. I--I heard
you'd had an accident and were all alone, so I--I thought I'd bring it
out."

For a moment the old man sat silent, his hard, glinting eyes, full of
sour suspicion, fixed on the boy's face. "What for?" he demanded suddenly.

"What for?" repeated Dale, puzzled.

"Yes; what for? What d' you expect to git out of it? You ain't toted a
basketful o' truck all the way out here jest out of regard for me, I
reckon. Who sent ye?"

Dale flushed, and unconsciously drew himself up a little. "Nobody," he
returned briefly. "I'm a boy scout. We--we try to do a good turn for
somebody every day."

Old Grimstone bent slightly forward, staring in a puzzled fashion at the
trim, khaki-clad figure before him. His right arm, bulky with bandages
and splints, was strapped tightly to his body; the other hand, gnarled
and brown, with blue veins showing here and there, gripped the arm of
the rocker. There was suspicion still in his glance, but back of it
was the look of one groping dimly for something he could not understand.
Suddenly he straightened with a jerk.

"Wal, set it down somewheres, then!" he growled ungraciously. "I ain't
an object o' charity yet, but if you're bound to leave it, I s'pose I
can use it somehow. You'd better be startin' back right away or you'll
miss your dinner."

Dale placed the basket on a table and commenced to remove the paper. "I'm
not going back yet," he explained cheerfully. "I'm going to stay and cook
it for you."

For a moment there was silence. Then the old man grunted inarticulately;
it might have been with surprise, or incredulity, or almost any other
emotion. Dale's back was toward him, so he could not tell, but since
there was no actual prohibition, he proceeded with the unpacking.

Somehow he was beginning to enter more into the spirit of the thing,
beginning to feel an interest, almost an enjoyment, in doing it up
thoroughly. Having taken off coat and sweater, his first act was to
prepare the chicken for roasting. When it was safely placed in the
oven he shook down the fire, added some more wood, and then turned his
attention to a pile of unwashed dishes, which the indolent Hinckley was
evidently accumulating until he considered it sizeable enough to be
worth tackling. It was a task the boy ordinarily hated, but he meant to
leave the room spick and span on his departure. So he rolled