"Well," was Grandpa Walker's comment when the recital was finished, "I dunno but what ye done all right enough. They ain't one o' them blame little scalawags down to Chestnut Valley, but what deserves a good thrashin' on gen'al principles. They yell names at me every time I go down to mill, an' then cut an' run like blazes 'fore I can git at 'em with a hoss-whip. I'm glad somebody's hed the grace to wallop 'em. And es for Dick Butler; he's too allfired pompous an' domineerin' for anybody to live with, anyhow. Lets on he was a great soldier! Humph! I've known him--" "Hush, father!" It was Pen's mother who spoke. The old man turned toward her abruptly. "You ain't got no call," he said, "to stick up for Dick Butler." "I know," she replied. "But he's Pen's grandfather, and it isn't nice to abuse him in Pen's presence." "Well, mebbe that's so." He rose from the table, got his pipe from the mantel, filled it and lighted it, and went over and deposited his somewhat ponderous body in a cushioned chair by the window. Pen's mother and aunt pushed the wheel-chair in which Grandma Walker sat, to one side of the room, and began to clear the dishes from the table. "Well," said the old man, between his puffs of smoke, "now ye're here, what ye goin' to do here?" "Anything you have for me to do, grandpa," replied Pen. "I don't see's I can send ye to school." "I'd rather not go to school. I'd rather work--do chores, anything." "All right! I guess we can keep ye from rustin'. They's plenty to do, and I ain't so soople as I was at sixty." He looked the embodiment of physical comfort, with his round, fresh face, and the fringe of gray whiskers under his chin, as he sat at ease in his big chair by the window, puffing lazily at his pipe. So Pen stayed. There was no doubt but that he earned his keep. He did chores. He chopped wood. He brought water from the well. He fed the horse and the cows, the chickens and the pigs. He drove Old Charlie in the performance of any work requiring the assistance of a horse. He was busy from morning to night. He slept in a cold room, he was up before daylight, he was out in all kinds of weather, he did all kinds of tasks. There were sore muscles and aching bones, indeed, before he had hardened himself to his work; for physical labor was new to him; but he never shirked nor complained. Moreover he was treated kindly, he had plenty to eat, and he shared in whatever diversions the family could afford. Then, too, he had his mother to comfort him, to cheer him, to sympathize with him, and to be, ever more and more, his confidante and companion. And Grandpa Walker, relieved of nearly all laborious activities about the place, much to his enjoyment, spent his time reading, smoking and dozing through the days of late winter and early spring, and discussing politics and big business in the country store at the cross-roads of an evening.