“Zebedee!” “Father,” said Zeb, “did old Sol tell you the whole story? If he didn’t I think I’d better.” “That would be just,” remarked the deacon, and Zeb was in the middle of it before he had time to reconsider his opinion. The story was not likely to lose much in Zeb’s telling of it, and before it was half finished the deacon began to feel as if there was no other duty in the world so difficult to live up to as a wholesome degree of parental severity. It was a critical moment, indeed, and Deacon Fuller felt as if a powerful reinforcement had arrived when, just then, the front gate swung open and the pursy form of Gershom Todderley, the miller, came heavily up the path to the side of the house where Zeb and his sire were standing. Brief, indeed, and somewhat embarrassed, were the mutual greetings, but Deacon Fuller’s face was fast recovering its original rigidity, in spite of the pictures in his mind’s eye of old Gershom going off the broken spring-board. Zeb never yielded an inch of ground, and fairly astounded his father by holding out his hand with: “You don’t seem to be hurt a bit. I thought a good swim wouldn’t do you any harm. I take one every day.” “Zeb,” exclaimed the miller, “I mean to learn to swim. Deacon Fuller, he’s an odd boy. Saved my life this afternoon. Made a fool of myself. Came over to thank you, soon as I could.” “Made a fool of yourself? Came to thank me? Why, neighbor Todderley, what do you mean? Some of Zeb’s performances, I suppose. I was just going to have a settlement with him. Dr. Dryer was here an hour ago.” “Old fool,” exclaimed the miller, with some energy. “Wish he’d tried the board first. Lighter man than I am. Might not have broke with him. Hope it might. Stood there like a post. Never tried to help me. Zeb and the boys fished me out. Came to thank you and him.” “Oh,” said the deacon, with a greatly relieved sigh, “that’s it, is it? I thought it must all be some of Zeb’s mischief. Come in, brother Todderley, come in.” “No, thank ye,” replied the miller. “Got an errand up street. Hope I’ll see you at meeting. Solemn thing to be drowned. Good-day.” And the miller turned on his heel, but Zeb’s father once more bent his inquiring gaze upon his hopeful son. “Zebedee, that’s all very well, but what’s this about Dr. Dryer?” “Gersh Todderley’s right about him too,” said Zeb. “I’ve the greatest respect for his opinions, now’s he’s in his right mind. Glad he means to learn to swim. I wouldn’t mind teaching him myself. They say fat men float the easiest kind.” “Zebedee, I hardly know what course I ought to take.” The boy’s face was again putting on a grave and serious look. “Father,” he said, pointing at the apple-tree sprouts, “what are those things for?” “I think you ought to know by this time, my son.” “Well, yes,” said Zeb, quietly, “I had some pretty good lessons years ago. May be it was just as well, too. But, father, how old am I now?” “Eighteen, Zeb. Why do you ask such a question?”