“Yes,” said the father, his face brightening, as he thrust his hand into his pocket and took out the fig box.  “Here,” as he gave a fig to each of the children and one to his wife, “how do you like that?”

“Good enough,” growled Tom, “only I don’t care for ’em unless I have a whole box.  I lift one out of a train-boy’s basket at the station once in a while.”

“Don’t ever do it again,” said the father.  “If you want ’em any time so bad you can’t do without ’em, let me know, an’ I’ll find some way to get ’em for you.”

“An’ get sent up again for more’n two year?” sneered the boy.

“I don’t mean to get ’em that way” said the father.  “But I’ve got somethin’ else for you.”  Here he took the circus pictures from his breast, where they had been much flattened during the several demonstrations of family affection in which they had been involved.  “Here’s a picture for each of you.”

Billy seemed to approve of the monkey, but Tom scowled and said,—­

“What do I care for an elephant’s head, when I seen the whole animal at the show, an’ everythin’ else besides?”

“S’pose I might as well get supper, though there ain’t much to get,” said the wife.  “There’s nothin’ in the house but corn-meal, so I’ll bile some mush.  An’,” she continued, with a peculiar look at her husband, “there ain’t anythin’ else for breakfast, though Deacon Quickset’s got lots of hens layin’ eggs ev’ry day.  I’ve told the boys about it again an’ again, but they’re worth less than nothin’ at helpin’ things along.  The deacon don’t keep no dog.  Now you’ve got home, I hope we’ll have somethin’.”

“Not if we have to get it that way,” said Sam, gently.  “No more stealin’; I’ll die first.”

“I guess we’ll all die, then,” moaned Mrs. Kimper.  “I didn’t s’pose bein’ sent up was goin’ to skeer all the spirit out of you.”

“It didn’t, Nan, but it’s been the puttin’ of a new kind of spirit into me.  I’ve been converted, Nan.”

“What?” gasped Mrs. Kimper.

“Thunder!” exclaimed Tom, after a hard laugh.  “You goin’ to be a shoutin’ Methodist?  Won’t that be bully to tell the fellers in the village?”

“I’m not goin’ to shout, or be anythin’ I know of, except an honest man:  you can tell that to all the fellers you like.”

“An’ be told I’m a blamed liar?  Not much.”

Mrs. Kimper seemed to be in a mournful revery, and when finally she spoke it was in the voice of a woman talking to herself, as she said,—­

“After all I’ve been layin’ up in my mind about places where there was potatoes an’ chickens an’ pigs an’ even turkeys that could be got an’ nobody’d be any the wiser!  How will we ever get along through the winter?”

“The Lord will provide,” croaked Tom, who had often sat under the church window during a revival meeting.

“If He don’t, we’ll do without,” said Sam, “but I guess we won’t suffer while I can work.”