Gideon laughed, but would not return the chalk till he had whitened Willy's jacket with it and the top of his hat. He never seemed to mean any harm, but just to be running over with good-natured, silly mischief. Willy ran home whistling; but when he saw his father standing in the front entry, his tune grew a little slower, and then stopped. Mr. Parlin was rather stern with his children, and did not like to have them make much noise in the house. "Well, my son, so you have brought home the medal again. That's right,--that's right." Willy took off his hat when his father spoke to him, and answered, "Yes, sir," with a respectful bow. There were two or three men standing in the doorway which led into the bar-room. "How d'ye do, my fine little lad?" said one of the men; "and what is your name?" Now, this was a question which Deacon Turner had asked over and over again, and Willy was rather tired of answering it. He thought the deacon might remember after being told so many times. "My name is just the same as it was the other day when you asked me, sir," said he. This pert speech called forth a laugh from all but Mr. Parlin, who frowned at the child, and exclaimed,-- "You are an ill-mannered little boy, sir. Go to your mother, and don't let me see you here again till you can come back with a civil tongue in your head." Tears sprang to Willy's eyes. He really had not intended any rudeness, and was ashamed of being reproved before strangers. He walked off quite stiffly, wishing he was "a growed-up man, so there wouldn't anybody dare send him out to his mother." But when he reached the kitchen, he found it so attractive there that he soon forgot his disgrace. A roast of beef was sizzling before the fire on a string, and Siller Noonin was taking a steaming plum pudding out of the Dutch oven, while Mrs. Parlin stood near the "broad dresser," as it was called, cutting bread. "O, mother, mother! the mistress told me to tell you she asked Mrs. Lyman what you asked her to, and she told _her_ to ask _me_ to tell _you_ it was too true.--Now, _what_ is too true, mother?" "It is too true that you are right in my way, you dear little plague," said Mrs. Parlin, stopping, in the very act of cutting bread, to hug the rosy-cheeked boy. She was a "business woman," and had many cares on her mind, but always found time to kiss and pet her children more than most people did, and much more than Siller Noonin thought was really necessary. "But, then," as Siller said, "their father never makes anything of them at all; so I suppose their mother feels obliged to do more than her part of the kissing." "Mother, mother! what is it that is too true? How can anything be too true?" asked Willy, dancing across the hearth, and almost upsetting the dripping-pan in which Liddy had just made the gravy.