So do I, but I shall only be away two nights. Silas Wilson promises to
make a man of me if I'll stay, but I'd rather grow to manhood somewhere
else."

Bert returned to the farm-house, and about half-past eight went to bed.
He knew he must be early astir, and he felt fatigued by his day of labor
in the field. Besides, Mr. and Mrs. Wilson went to bed at this hour. The
farmer was not fond of reading, nor indeed was there anything in the
house to read, for neither he nor his wife had a literary taste. Once he
took an agricultural paper for a year at a cost of two dollars, but
whenever the paper arrived he groaned in spirit over the cost, and
deplored his extravagance in subscribing for it.

The room assigned to Bert was over the kitchen, which was in the ell
part. The roof was sloping, and, toward the eaves, very low. There was
one window near the bed which he occupied.

Bert went to sleep in ten minutes, and slept soundly for three or four
hours. Then something roused him, and he opened his eyes. What he saw
startled him. By the bright moonlight he perceived a man climbing in at
the window.

To say that Bert was perfectly calm would not be true. He was very much
startled, as I think almost any boy, or man either, would have been
under the circumstances.

"It is a burglar!" thought Bert in excitement. "What can I do?"

Some one evidently had heard of Silas Wilson's miserly disposition, and
judged that there would be a good chance to secure booty in the farm
house. Bert, though he did not admire Mr. Wilson, felt that it was his
duty to protect him from being plundered, if possible. He knew that he
was in some personal peril, but he was naturally a brave boy, and his
spirit rose to the occasion.

He waited until the supposed burglar was in the room, and then, sitting
up in bed, asked stoutly: "Who are you? What brings you here?"

The man turned swiftly toward the bed, and fixed his eyes on Bert, but
did not immediately speak.

"If you are a burglar," continued Bert, emboldened by the man's
hesitation, "you had better get out of the window again, or I shall call
Mr. Wilson."

"No, don't call him, at least not yet," said the intruder, sinking into
a chair a few feet from the bed. "Are you working here?"

"Yes."

"Who are you?"

This seemed a singular question. What could his name matter to a
burglar? However, Bert answered mechanically, "My name is Bert Barton."

"The widow Barton's boy?"

"Yes; how do you k