Pat was sensitive. There was something in the General's manner as he left him, something in Mrs. Brady's tones as she directed him, that restored his self-respect. "If only I never had to be goin' on the street till after dark, 'twouldn't be so bad," thought Pat. "But there's school, and there's Jim Barrows. I'll just have to stand it, that's what I will. Mother says I'm brave, but it's not very brave inside I'm feelin'. I'd run if I could." But Pat was to learn some day, and learn it from the General's lips, that the very bravest men have been men who wanted to run and _wouldn't_. At General Brady's there was light lunch at noon and dinner at five, which was something Pat had already become accustomed to from having to do his own family cooking for the last six weeks. He was pretty well used to hurrying home the moment the afternoon session of school was over to prepare the meal of the day for his hungry brothers and his tired mother. On Monday, therefore, he came flying into the Brady kitchen at fifteen minutes of five. There was the dinner cooking, with no one to watch it. Where was Mrs. Brady? Pat did not stop to inquire. His own experience told him that that dinner needed immediate attention. Down went his books. He flew to wash his hands and put on his apron. He turned the water off the potatoes in a jiffy. "Sure and I just saved 'em, and that's all!" he cried, as he put them to steam dry. "I'll peep in the oven, so I will," he said. "That roast needs bastin', so it does." He heard the General come in. "There's a puddin' in the warm oven," he continued, "but I don't know nothin' about that. It's long since we've had puddin' at home. I'll just dress the potatoes and whip 'em up light. I can do that anyway, and give the roast another baste. It's done, and I'll be settin' it in the warm oven along with the puddin'. For how do I know how Mrs. Brady wants her gravy? Where is she, I wonder?" "Why, Pat," said a surprised voice, "can you cook?" "Not much, ma'am," answered Pat with a blush. "But I can sometimes keep other people's cookin' from spoilin'." "Well said!" cried the General, who was determined to make Pat feel at ease. "Fannie, give me an apron, and I'll make the gravy. I used to be a famous hand at it in the army." Pat stared, and then such a happy look came into his eyes that the General felt a little moisture in his own. "How that boy has been suffering!" he said to himself. "I was detained by a caller," explained Mrs. Brady. "The dinner would surely have been spoiled if Pat had not come just when he did." And then Pat's cup was full. He blushed, he beamed. Here was the General, the man whom his mother had held up to Pat's admiration, with an apron on, cooking! And Mrs. Brady said that he had saved the dinner. "Let Jim Barrows say what he likes," he thought. "I'd not like to be eatin' any of his cookin'." Cooking had risen in Pat's estimation.