"Yes, I can," he assured her, recalling his scanty breakfast and the freezer of cream that was to furnish the dessert. "I'll help you get it, Miss M'ri." He brought a pail of water from the well, filled the teakettle, and then pared the potatoes for her. "When will Jud and Janey get their dinner?" he asked Barnabas. "They kerried their dinner to-day. The scholars air goin' to hev a picnic down to Spicely's grove. How comes it you ain't to school, Dave?" "I have to help my mother with the washing," he replied, a slow flush coming to his face. "She ain't strong enough to do it alone." "What on airth kin you do about a washin', Dave?" "I can draw the water, turn the wringer, hang up the clothes, empty the tubs, fetch and carry the washings, and mop." Barnabas puffed fiercely at his pipe for a moment. "You're a good boy, Dave, a mighty good boy. I don't know what your ma would do without you. I hed to leave school when I wa'n't as old as you, and git out and hustle so the younger children could git eddicated. By the time I wuz foot-loose from farm work, I wuz too old to git any larnin'. You'd orter manage someway, though, to git eddicated." "Mother's taught me to read and write and spell. When I get old enough to work for good wages I can go into town to the night school." In a short time M'ri had cooked a dinner that would have tempted less hearty appetites than those possessed by her brother and David. "You ain't what might be called a delikit feeder, Dave," remarked Barnabas, as he replenished the boy's plate for the third time. "You're so lean I don't see where you put it all." David might have responded that the vacuum was due to the fact that his breakfast had consisted of a piece of bread and his last night's supper of a dish of soup, but the Dunne pride inclined to reservation on family and personal matters. He speared another small potato and paused, with fork suspended between mouth and plate. "Mother says she thinks I am hollow inside like a stovepipe." "Well, I dunno. Stovepipes git filled sometimes," ruminated his host. "Leave room for the ice cream, David," cautioned M'ri, as she descended to the cellar. The lad's eyes brightened as he beheld the golden pyramid. Another period of lingering bliss, and then with a sigh of mingled content and regret, David rose from the table. "Want me to hook up for you, Mr. Brumble?" he asked, moved to show his gratitude for the hospitality extended. "Why, yes, Dave; wish you would. My back is sorter lame to-day. Land o' livin'," he commented after David had gone to the barn, "but that boy swallered them potaters like they wuz so many pills!" "Poor Mrs. Dunne!" sighed M'ri. "I am afraid it's all she can do to keep a very small pot boiling. I am glad she sent the sorghum, so I could have an excuse for sending the eggs."