“Good morning, Mr. Borden,” responded Mrs. Richards, advancing to the door and drying her arms on a towel as she did so. There was no apology for being found doing this, and simply and cordially she said, “Won’t you come in?” “Thank you,” replied Mr. Borden. “I think I understand what it means to be interrupted in a busy hour. No, we’ll not come in, but if you don’t object we’ll take a walk about your place and look up the boys.” “They are in the field, yonder,” she said pointing to a distant part of the little farm. “We call it the ten-acre lot.” “They appear to be busy too,” suggested Mr. Borden. “They are, but not too busy to see their friends. I’ll call them,” she added as she reached for a long tin horn that was hanging on the kitchen wall. “No! not by any means!” said Mr. Borden hastily. “Don’t disturb the boys. We shall find them easily. It is all slightly different from what I find in my office,” he added smilingly. “There, I’m afraid the boys are more likely to stop work before the horn sounds.” “My boys are good workers――they have to be,” said Mrs. Richards simply. “Yes, I understand. It is hard when the head of the family is gone.” “It isn’t that only, though of course Dan and Tom feel more responsibility than they would if their father had lived. But they are both interested in the farm, though Dan is interested in his books too.” “Which is he more interested in――the farm or his books?” “Books.” “Isn’t he too tired to study when night comes, after working so hard all day?” “If he is he doesn’t say anything about it. Since young Mr. Moulton has been here he has been helping Dan.” “Yes, he’s been showing Dan how to pitch too,” broke in Walter. “So he has,” said Mrs. Richards smilingly. “You’d think those boys had had enough work when night comes, but they go out behind the barn almost every night after supper and Dan will throw a ball to Tom with all his might and keep it up for an hour at a time. I hear Mr. Moulton talking to them, but I can’t seem to make head or tail of what he is saying. It’s mostly about inshoots and fade-aways and drop-balls and spitballs. When I was a girl in school the boys used to throw spitballs. I guess you could see some of ’em still sticking to the ceiling of the old Pine Tree schoolhouse. But Mr. Moulton and Tom and Dan seem to take it all seriously, though for my part I can’t see how or why. But then,” she added complacently, “they’re boys and I’m just a middle-aged woman, an’ it isn’t natural to think I’d be interested in the things that interest my boys.” “You are interested in the boys though, I fancy,” suggested Mr. Borden smiling as he spoke. “I wouldn’t be fit to be their mother if I wasn’t. They’re both good boys. There, I’ve talked enough about my own flesh and blood. I wish you would come in. I have some fresh buttermilk――right from the churn.” “We’ll stop and have some on our way back if that will not be too much trouble,” said Mr. Borden as he and Walter turned away.