“I’ll tell ez soon ez I kin put it back. I’ll tell dad ennyhows; I hev got ter holp Jerry Binwell this time, but arter that I’ll never go along o’ him ag’in,” he thought, as he stared pale and abstractedly at his father, who was tilted back in his chair contentedly smoking his pipe. Obadiah twanged gleefully on his fiddle while the firelight and shadows danced to the measure; the other two boys scuffled merrily with one another, sometimes leaving the bench to “wrastle” about the floor, falling heavily from time to time. The baby sputtered and crowed and grabbed Bose’s ear in a strong mottled fist until that amiable animal showed the white of his eye in gazing pleadingly upward at the infantile tyrant. The wind whirled about the house, the door shook, and the branches of the tree close by thrashed the roof. “Why, Skimpy, how mournful ye look!” exclaimed Mrs. Sawyer. “Shucks!” said Obadiah fraternally, “ye needn’t be mournin’ over Ike an’ his comp’ny. I wouldn’t gin a pig-tail, nor a twist of one, fur Ike!” “Ye hev got comp’ny a plenty at home,” exclaimed Mrs. Sawyer, “with yer three big brothers”— “An’ the baby,” cried one of the wrestlers pausing for breath. “An’ Bose,” added the other, red-faced and panting. “Laws-a-massy, Skimp,” exclaimed Obadiah, rising to the heights of heroism, “I’ll gin ye the loan o’ my fiddle. Thar!” He placed the instrument in Skimpy’s trembling hand, and laid the bow across his knee. And this from Obadiah, who had always seemed without feeling except for his own music! Their kindness melted Skimpy, who held the instrument up to his agitated face as if to shield it from observation, and burst into tears. “Waal, sir!” exclaimed the wrestlers in chorus. “Tut—tut—Skimpy boy!” said his father in remonstrance. Obadiah’s face was anxious. “Jes’ lean a leetle furder ter the right, Skimp,” he said, “don’t drap no tears inter the insides o’ that thar fiddle—might sp’ile it tee-totally.” Skimpy held the violin well to one side, and wept as harmlessly as he might. He found a great relief in his sobs, a relaxation of the nervous tension—he might have told them all then had it not been for the inopportune solicitude of his mother. “Ye hed better go ter bed, sonny. I know it’s early yit, but ye look sorter raveled out. Ye better go ter bed an’ git a good sleep, an’ ye won’t keer nuthin’ ’bout Ike an’ his aggervations in the mornin’.”