on ’em.  A pair of old cowhide boots that leaked in more snow an’ water ‘n they kept out, an’ a couple pairs of woolen socks that was putty much all darns, was expected to see me through the winter, an’ I went barefoot f’m the time the snow was off the ground till it flew agin in the fall.  The’ wa’n’t but two seasons o’ the year with me—­them of chilblains an’ stun-bruises.”

The speaker paused and stared for a moment into the comfortable glow of the fire, and then discovering to his apparent surprise that his cigar had gone out, lighted it from a coal picked out with the tongs.

“Farmin’ ’s a hard life,” remarked Mrs. Cullom with an air of being expected to make some contribution to the conversation.

“An’ yit, as it seems to me as I look back on’t,” David resumed pensively, “the wust on’t was that nobody ever gin me a kind word, ’cept Polly.  I s’pose I got kind o’ used to bein’ cold an’ tired; dressin’ in a snowdrift where it blowed into the attic, an’ goin’ out to fodder cattle ‘fore sun-up; pickin’ up stun in the blazin’ sun, an’ doin’ all the odd jobs my father set me to, an’ the older ones shirked onto me.  That was the reg’lar order o’ things; but I remember I never did git used to never pleasin’ nobody.  ‘Course I didn’t expect nothin’ f’m my step-marm, an’ the only way I ever knowed I’d done my stent fur ’s father was concerned, was that he didn’t say nothin’.  But sometimes the older ones ‘d git settin’ ‘round, talkin’ an’ laughin’, havin’ pop corn an’ apples, an’ that, an’ I’d kind o’ sidle up, wantin’ to join ’em, an’ some on ’em ’d say, ‘What you doin’ here? time you was in bed,’ an’ give me a shove or a cuff.  Yes, ma’am,” looking up at Mrs. Cullom, “the wust on’t was that I was kind o’ scairt the hull time.  Once in a while Polly ‘d give me a mossel o’ comfort, but Polly wa’n’t but little older ‘n me, an’ bein’ the youngest girl, was chored most to death herself.”

It had stopped snowing, and though the wind still came in gusty blasts, whirling the drift against the windows, a wintry gleam of sunshine came in and touched the widow’s wrinkled face.

“It’s amazin’ how much trouble an’ sorrer the’ is in the world, an’ how soon it begins,” she remarked, moving a little to avoid the sunlight.  “I hain’t never ben able to reconcile how many good things the’ be, an’ how little most on us gits o’ them.  I hain’t ben to meetin’ fer a long spell ‘cause I hain’t had no fit clo’es, but I remember most of the preachin’ I’ve set under either dwelt on the wrath to come, or else on the Lord’s doin’ all things well, an’ providin’.  I hope I ain’t no wickeder ’n than the gen’ral run, but it’s putty hard to hev faith in the Lord’s providin’ when you hain’t got nothin’ in the house but corn meal, an’ none too much o’ that.”

“That’s so, Mis’ Cullom, that’s so,” affirmed David.  “I don’t blame ye a mite.  ‘Doubts assail, an’ oft prevail,’ as the hymn-book says, an’ I reckon it’s a sight easier to have faith on meat an’ potatoes ’n it is on corn meal mush.  Wa’al, as I was sayin’—­I hope I ain’t tirin’ ye with my goin’s on?”