By this time they had reached the farm-house. The farmer drove into the barn and put up the horse. "Now we'll go to work," he said. The work which awaited Bert was in the cornfield. He was set to hoeing, and kept it up for three hours, along with the farmer in the adjoining row. Noon came, and Silas, pausing in his work, said: "I calculate Mis' Wilson will have dinner ready. We'll go to the house." CHAPTER XIX. BERT'S EXPERIENCE AS A FARMER'S BOY. Bert followed the farmer into the kitchen, in the center of which a table was set. A bony and angular woman was just placing on it a large pitcher of water. "Mis' Wilson," said the farmer, "this is Bert Barton, who is helping me about the farm work." Bert was no stranger to Mrs. Wilson, whose pew in church was near the one he occupied. "How's your ma?" she inquired jerkily. "Pretty well, thank you, Mrs. Wilson." "I'm glad to hear it. She looks like a friend of mine, Mrs. Dusenberry, who died of heart disease." "I don't think her heart is affected," said Bert, not without anxiety. "Maybe not, but you can't tell. Folks lives along for years with their hearts out of kilter, who never find it out till some day they drop dead." Mrs. Wilson decidedly was not a cheerful converser. She prided herself on detecting signs of unsuspected diseases. "Mebbe you've got heart disease yourself, Sophia," remarked the farmer jocosely. "Just as likely as not," answered Mrs. Wilson calmly. "I'm sure my liver's affected, for I feel it squirm sometimes." "Mebbe I'd better look out 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.