“You must allow, Sally,” he said, “that it's quite a strain on a hen to keep a-layin' right along through such weather as this, and I'm only thankful they lay any. Mebby if you give them a leetle more o' that hen-food they'll do better.” “I believe it,” said Sally. “Why, it's wonderful, Pap. I shouldn't be a bit surprised to find 'em layin' duck eggs if I jist give 'em enough o' that stuff.” Pap looked closely at her face, but it was innocent of guile. She suspected nothing. The next day the eggs were of the proper size. “It's a real blessin' to have hens a-layin',” she said one day. “I took half a dozen over to the minister's wife this mornin', and she was so pleased! She said it was sich a blessin' to have fresh eggs again. She was gittin' sick o' them she's been buyin' at Billings'. She was downright thankful.” About a week later she said: “Them hens of ourn do beat all creation. I run out o' that hen-food a week ago, and I hain't give them a mite since, and they keep a-layin' jist the same. I can't make head nor tail of them, Pap.” Pap squirmed in his chair. “Pshaw, now, Sally,” he said, “you'd ought to have let me know you was out. You oughtn't to do that. Feed 'em plenty of it. They deserve it. If you stop feedin' them they'll stop layin' pretty soon. The effect of that hen-food don't last more'n two weeks. No,” he said thoughtfully, “ten days is the longest I ever knowed it to last 'em.” If Pap Briggs enjoyed his eggs for breakfast he enjoyed as fully the many laughs he had with Billings over the scheme, and Billing found it hard to keep his promised secrecy. It would be such a good story to tell. But Pap exhorted him daily, and he did not let the secret out. One Sunday morning Pap came down to his breakfast and took his seat. Sally brought his coffee and bacon. Then she brought him a plate of moistened toast. “You've forgot the eggs, Sally,” said Pap admonishingly. “They ain't none this morning,” said Sally briefly. Pap looked up and saw that her mouth was set very firmly. “No eggs?” he asked tremulously. “No,” she said decidedly, “no eggs! I kin believe that hens lay eggs and don't cluck, and I kin believe that hens lay eggs all winter, and I kin believe that Plymouth Rock hens lay Leghorn eggs and Shanghai eggs and Banty eggs, Pap, but when hens begin layin' spoiled eggs I ain't no more faith in hens.” Pap laid down his knife and fork. “Spoiled eggs!” he ejaculated. “Yes, spoiled eggs,” she declared. “You and Billings ought to be more careful.” Pap turned his bacon over and eyed it critically. Then he frowned at it. Then he chuckled.