The two elder sons smiled. To be permitted to hearten their mother was to them a great privilege, and suddenly little Jim did not appear the hopeless case he had seemed when they went to bed the night before. They cheered up, and the three were pleasantly chatting when sleepy-eyed little Jim came out of the bedroom. "Hurry, now, and get washed, and then set your table," said his mother kindly. But little Jim was sulky. "I'm tired of gettin' up early mornin's just to be doin' girl's work," he said. Mrs. O'Callaghan nodded significantly at Pat and Mike. "What was that story, Moike, you was tellin' me about the smartest fellow in the Gineral's mess, before he got to be a gineral, you know, bein' so handy at all sorts of woman's work? Didn't you tell me the Gineral said there couldn't no woman come up to him?" "I did, mother." "I call that pretty foine. Beatin' the women at their own work. There was only wan man in the mess that could do it, you said?" "Yes, mother," smiled Mike. "I thought so. 'Tain't often you foind a rale handy man loike that. And he was the best foighter they had, too?" "Yes, mother." "I thought I remimbered all about it. Jim, here, can foight, but do woman's work he can't. That is, and do it good. He mostly gets the tablecloth crooked. No, he's no hand at the girl's work." "I'll show you," thought little Jim. On a sudden the tablecloth was straight, and everything began to take its proper place on the table. "Mother," ventured Pat, though he had not yet received the word, "the table's set pretty good this morning." "So it is, Pat, so it is," responded the widow glancing it over. "Maybe Jim can do girl's work after all." "Maybe he can, Pat, but he'll have to prove it before he'll foind them that'll belave it. That's the way in this world. 'Tis not enough to be sayin' you can do this and that. You've got to prove it. And how will you prove it? By doin' it, of course." Little Jim heard, though he did not seem to be listening, being intent on making things uncomfortable for Barney and Tommie as far as he could in a quiet way. It was a passion with little Jim to prove things--not by his mother's method, but by his own. So far his disputes had been with boys of his own size and larger, and if they doubted what he said he was in the habit of proving his assertions with his fists. The result was that other boys either dodged him or agreed with him with suspicious readiness. His mother had given him a fair trial at the housework. He would prove to her that it was not because he could not, but because he would not, that he succeeded no better. He washed the dishes with care and put them shining on their shelves, and, a little later, poked his head out of the bedroom door into the kitchen. "Mother," he said, "you think I can't make a bed good, don't you?" The widow smiled. "I think you _don't_ make it good," was her answer.