for a second Mis' Wilson," suggested the
farmer smiling.

"You ain't over healthy yourself, Silas," responded his better half,
surveying her husband in a business-like manner. "It looks to me as if
your kidneys was out of order, and you're the very image of Jed
Pettibone, who died of apoplexy. He lived next door to my mother. One
day he was alive and well, and to-morrow he was as the grass of the
field."

The farmer's face wore a very uncomfortable look, and he was evidently
by no means pleased with his wife's prognostications.

"Nonsense!" he said testily. "I'm as well as any man of my age in
Lakeville."

"'Boast not thyself of to-morrow'!" quoted Mrs. Wilson solemnly.

"Come, Bert, let us set down to dinner," said Silas hastily. "What have
you got for us, Sophia?"

"I've warmed over them beans we had yesterday," answered his helpmeet,
"and there's two sausages besides. I don't want any. You'd ought to
make a dinner off of that."

"Why, to be sure! Beans and sausages is hearty, and will stand by us in
the field. The laborer is worthy of his meat."

"Where's the meat," thought Bert.

Silas Wilson put a moderate portion of beans on a large plate, flanking
it with a thin, consumptive-looking sausage.

"Help yourself to potatoes," he said, as he handed the plate to Bert.

Bert availed himself of the invitation, and helped himself to a potato
in that condition known as soggy. He tried to eat it, but, though fond
of potatoes, he left it almost entire on his plate. This, however, was
not all. There was a plate of rye-bread on the table, from which Bert
helped himself to a slice. It was apparently two or three days old, and
needed something to make it palatable.

"Please give me some butter," asked Bert, not having observed that this
was a prohibited article on the Wilsons' dinner table.

"There ain't none," answered Mrs. Wilson promptly.

"I beg pardon. I hadn't noticed," said Bert, blushing.

"We never have butter at dinner," explained Silas Wilson. "It's apt to
lead to humors, particularly in boys, isn't it, Mis' Wilson?"

"So I've always heard, Silas. Besides, as we have it at breakfast and
supper, that's enough. It goes fast enough, even then. Why, we used most
a pound last week."

"And butter twenty-seven cents a pound!" chimed in the farmer. "Why,
it's extravagant!"

"Do you know, Silas, how much butter is used in Squire Marlowe's
family?"

"No," answered the farmer, with interest.

"Hannah--M