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ney's since I was grown up. I've worked hard, and so has my wife." "Yours has, too," he added, after a moment. "I don't know of a more hard-working woman than Abby Gilman." "True as the gospel, Squire, poor soul!" and the fretful, discontented look on the man's face passed away for a moment. A recollection of all her patient labor and care came over him, and how very different things would have been if he had followed her example, and listened to her entreaties.

"Why don't you take a new start ?" said the Squire, encouragingly, for he knew that if any thing could rouse his old companion` it would be the love for his wife. "You've got some pretty good land left, and ought to be able to work. We're both of us young men yet. My father made every cent he had after he was your age; and there's Sam, quite a big boy, he ought to be considerable help."

"Yes, he's as good a boy as ever lived, I'll own that-but hard work don't agree with me. It never did."

Gilman was quite right. It never had agreed with his indolent disposition. There are a

great many children as well as men who make the same complaint.

"If a body could find a lump of gold, now, Squire, to set a fellow up again.”

"I do believe you'd think it was too much trouble to stoop and pick it up," Mr. Merrill said, good-naturedly. He saw that California was still uppermost in his companion's mind. "And just look at that stone wall, and your barn—it wouldn't be very hard work to mend either of them, and I don't believe a stone or a board has been touched for the last two years, except what Sam has contrived to do."

Gilman looked thoroughly ashamed. With the evidence of neglect staring him in the face, he could not even resent it. He seemed relieved when the Squire drew up before the end door, to think that the lecture was over. There, too, were broken fences, dilapidated windows, every trace of neglect and decay. The place once appropriated to the wood-pile was empty, and instead of the daily harvest of well-seasoned chips, hickory and pine, a few knotted sticks and small branches lay near the block. One meagre-looking cow stood shivering in the most sheltered

corner of the barn-yard, without even the cackle of a hen to cheer her solitude. The upper hinges of the great barn door had given way, but there was nothing to secure it by, and it had been left so since the cold weather first came. Every thing looked doubly desolate in the gray, fading light of a wintry day, and the blaze that streamed up through the kitchen window was too fitful to promise a cheerful fireside. Yet fifteen years ago, this very homestead had been known for miles around for its comfort and plenty.

CHAPTER II.

A NEW PLAN.

"WHY, father!" was the surprised and cheerful exclamation of Mrs. Gilman, as her husband entered the room. It was an unusually early hour for him, and besides, she saw his step was steady. No wonder that she left the bread she was kneading, and came forward, her hands still covered with flour, to meet him. As she stood in the fire-light, she was handsome even yet, though her face looked careworn, and her figure was bent, as if she had been much older. Her ninepenny calico dress was neatly made, and though she had no collar, a small plaid silk handkerchief, tied closely around the throat, supplied the place of one. She must have had a cheerful, sunny temper originally, for in spite of her many trials, there was not a trace of despondency or fretfulness in her face or manner.

"Didn't you go to the Corner? Oh, was

that you in Squire Merrill's sleigh? I thought I heard it stop. Abby, get father his shoesHannah, just look at the bannock, it must be almost done by this time, and we don't have father home every day. Come, children, step round:" and Mrs. Gilman made a lively motion to quicken the tardy Hannah, who was straining her eyes out over a book by the very faint twilight of the west window.

Mr. Gilman felt that he did not deserve this hearty welcome, in a home to which he had brought only sorrow and trouble There were other thoughts that kept him silent too, for after explaining that Squire Merrill had brought him home, he sat down by the fireplace and watched his wife and daughters while they prepared tea, as if it had been a holiday. Cold brown bread, that substantial New England loaf, and the smoking corn meal bannock, were all that they had to set forth, with a simple garnishing of butter and a bowlder of apple-sauce, made, also, by the good mother in the autumn. The largest and driest sticks of wood were added to the fire, so, though there was but one candle, and that but a “dip," any thing in the room was plainly visible.

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