For a moment or two Mrs. Haley stood in silence studying and appraising
the new man. The result did not apparently inspire her with hope.

"Come on now, Pa," she said, "stop yer foolin' and git me that wood. I
want it right now. You're keepin' me back and there's an awful lot to
do."

"But I ain't foolin', Ma. Mr. Cameron is our new hand. He'll knock yeh
off a few sticks in no time." So saying, Haley walked off with his pails
to the milking, leaving his wife and the new hand facing each other,
each uncertain as to the next move.

"What can I do, Mrs. Haley?" enquired Cameron politely.

"Oh, I don't know," said Mrs. Haley wearily. "I want a few sticks for
the breakfast, but perhaps I can get along with chips, but chips don't
give no steady fire."

"If you would show me just what to do," said Cameron with some
hesitation, "I mean, where is the wood to be got?"

"There," she said, in a surprised tone, pointing to a pile of long logs
of ash and maple. "I don't want much." She gathered her apron full of
chips and turned away, all too obviously refusing to place her hope of
wood for the breakfast fire upon the efforts of the new man. Cameron
stood looking alternately at the long, hard, dry logs and at the axe
which he had picked up from the bed of chips. The problem of how to
produce the sticks necessary to breakfast by the application of the one
to the other was one for which he could see no solution. He lifted his
axe and brought it down hard upon a maple log. The result was a slight
indentation upon the log and a sharp jar from the axe handle that ran up
his arm unpleasantly. A series of heavy blows produced nothing more than
a corresponding series of indentations in the tough maple log and of
jars more or less sharp and painful shooting up his arms. The result was
not encouraging, but it flashed upon him that this was his first attempt
to make good at his job on the farm. He threw off his coat and went at
his work with energy; but the probability of breakfast, so far as it
depended upon the result of his efforts, seemed to be growing more and
more remote.

"Guess ye ain't got the knack of it," said a voice, deep, full, and
mellow, behind him. "That axe ain't no good for choppin', it's a
splittin' axe."

Turning, he saw a girl of about seventeen, with little grace and less
beauty, but strongly and stoutly built, and with a good-natured, if
somewhat stupid and heavy face. Her hair was dun in colour, coarse
in text