“What have you been about all day?” said her brother, taking her up to his shoulder.  “Cold isn’t it?  Have you got some supper for me?”

“No, I hav’n’t, —­” said the little girl.  “Mamma! —­ Governor wants his supper!”

“Hush, hush.  Governor’s not in a hurry.”

“Where have you been all day?” she repeated, putting her little hand upon his cold face with a sort of tender consideration.

“In the snow, and out of it.”

“What were you doing in the snow?”

“Walking.”

“Was it cold?”

“Stinging.”

“What was stinging?”

“Why, the cold!”

She laughed a little, and went on stroking his face.

“What were you doing when you wa’n’t in the snow?”

“What do you want to know for?”

“Tell me!”

“I was scutching flax.”

“What is that?”

“Why, don’t you know? —­ didn’t you see me beating flax in the barn the other day? —­ beating it upon a board, with a bat? —­ that was scutching.”

“That day when mamma said, —­ mamma said, you were working too hard?”

“I think it is very likely.”

“I thought we were done dressing flax?” remarked Asahel.

“We! —­ well, I suppose you have, for this season.”

“Well, ain’t you done dressing flax?”

“No, sir.”

“I thought you said the flax was all done, Winthrop?” said his mother.

“My father’s is all done, ma’am.”

“And yet you have been dressing flax to-day?” said Asahel; while his mother looked.

“Mamma,” said Winthrop, “I wish Asahel was a little older. —­ He would be a help.”

“Who have you been working for?” said the child.

“For myself.”

“Where have you been, Winthrop?” said his mother in a lower tone of inquiry.

“I have been over the mountain, mamma, —­ to Mr. Upshur’s.”

“Dressing flax?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And you have come over the mountain to-night?”

“Yes, mother.”

She stooped in silence to the fire to take up her tea-pot; but Asahel exclaimed,

“It ain’t right, mamma, is it, for Winthrop to be dressing flax for anybody else?”

“What’s the wrong?” said his brother.

“Is it, mamma?”

But mamma was silent.

“What’s the wrong?” repeated Winthrop.

“Because you ought to be doing your own business.”

“Never did, if I didn’t to-day,” Winthrop remarked as he came to the table.

“For shame Asahel!” put in little Winifred with her childish voice; —­ “you don’t know.  Governor always is right.”

It was a very cold February, and it was a very bleak walk over the mountain; but Winthrop took it many a time.  His mother now and then said when she saw him come in or go out, “Don’t overtry yourself, my son! —­” but he answered her always with his usual composure, or with one of those deep breaking-up looks which acknowledged only her care —­ not the need for it.  As Karen said, “he had a pretty strength to begin with;” and it was so well begun that all the exposure and hardship served rather to its development and maturing.