In the kitchen, a long room with red-tiled floor and latticed windows, a woman, white-aproned and frail-faced, was bustling about her morning business. To her skirts clung a sturdy, bare-legged boy; while at the oak table in the centre of the room a girl with brown eyes and straggling hair was seated before a basin of bread and milk. “So yo've coom at last, David!” the woman cried, as the boy entered; and, bending, greeted him with a tender, motherly salutation, which he returned as affectionately. “I welly thowt yo'd forgot us this mornin'. Noo sit you' doon beside oor Maggie.” And soon he, too, was engaged in a task twin to the girl's. The two children munched away in silence, the little bare-legged boy watching them, the while, critically. Irritated by this prolonged stare, David at length turned on him. “Weel, little Andrew,” he said, speaking in that paternal fashion in which one small boy loves to address another. “Weel, ma little lad, yo'm coomin' along gradely.” He leant back in his chair the better to criticise his subject. But Andrew, like all the Moores, slow of speech, preserved a stolid silence, sucking a chubby thumb, and regarding his patron a thought cynically. David resented the expression on the boy's countenance, and half rose to his feet. “Yo' put another face on yo', Andrew Moore,” he cried threateningly, “or I'll put it for yo'.” Maggie, however, interposed opportunely. “Did yo' feyther beat yo' last night?” she inquired in a low voice; and there was a shade of anxiety in the soft brown eyes. “Nay,” the boy answered; “he was a-goin' to, but he never did. Drunk,” he added in explanation. “What was he goin' to beat yo' for, David?” asked Mrs. Moore. “What for? Why, for the fun o't--to see me squiggle,” the boy replied, and laughed bitterly. “Yo' shouldna speak so o' your dad, David,” reproved the other as severely as was in her nature. “Dad! a fine dad! I'd dad him an I'd the chance,” the boy muttered beneath his breath. Then, to turn the conversation: “Us should be startin', Maggie,” he said, and going to the door. “Bob! Owd Bob, lad! Ar't coomin' along?” he called. The gray dog came springing up like an antelope, and the three started off for school together. Mrs. Moore stood in the doorway, holding Andrew by the hand, and watched the departing trio. “'Tis a pretty pair, Master, surely,” she said softly to her husband, who came up at the moment. “Ay, he'll be a fine lad if his fether'll let him,” the tall man answered. “Tis a shame Mr. M'Adam should lead him such a life,” the woman continued indignantly. She laid a hand on her husband's arm, and looked up at him coaxingly.