“You c’n estimate, I reckon,” he began, “what kind of a bringin’-up I had, an’ what a poor, mis’able, God-fersaken, scairt-to-death little forlorn critter I was; put upon, an’ snubbed, an’ jawed at till I’d come to believe myself—­what was rubbed into me the hull time—­that I was the most all-’round no-account animul that was ever made out o’ dust, an’ wa’n’t ever likely to be no diff’rent.  Lookin’ back, it seems to me that—­exceptin’ of Polly—­I never had a kind word said to me, nor a day’s fun.  Your husband, Billy P. Cullom, was the fust man that ever treated me human up to that time.  He give me the only enjoy’ble time ’t I’d ever had, an’ I don’t know ‘t anythin’ ’s ever equaled it since.  He spent money on me, an’ he give me money to spend—­that had never had a cent to call my own—­an’, Mis’ Cullom, he took me by the hand, an’ he talked to me, an’ he gin me the fust notion ’t I’d ever had that mebbe I wa’n’t only the scum o’ the earth, as I’d ben teached to believe.  I told ye that that day was the turnin’ point of my life.  Wa’al, it wa’n’t the lickin’ I got, though that had somethin’ to do with it, but I’d never have had the spunk to run away’s I did if it hadn’t ben for the heartenin’ Billy P. gin me, an’ never knowed it, an’ never knowed it,” he repeated mournfully.  “I alwus allowed to pay some o’ that debt back to him, but seein’ ‘s I can’t do that, Mis’ Cullom, I’m glad an’ thankful to pay it to his widdo’.”

“Mebbe he knows, Dave,” said Mrs. Cullom softly.

“Mebbe he does,” assented David in a low voice.

Neither spoke for a time, and then the widow said:  “David, I can’t thank ye ‘s I ought ter—­I don’t know how—­but I’ll pray for ye night an’ mornin’ ’s long ‘s I got breath.  An’, Dave,” she added humbly, “I want to take back what I said about the Lord’s providin’.”

She sat a moment, lost in her thoughts, and then exclaimed, “Oh, it don’t seem ’s if I c’d wait to write to Charley!”

“I’ve wrote to Charley,” said David, “an’ told him to sell out there an’ come home, an’ to draw on me fer any balance he needed to move him.  I’ve got somethin’ in my eye that’ll be easier an’ better payin’ than fightin’ grasshoppers an’ drought in Kansas.”

“Dave Harum!” cried the widow, rising to her feet, “you ought to ‘a’ ben a king!”

“Wa’al,” said David with a grin, “I don’t know much about the kingin’ bus’nis, but I guess a cloth cap ‘n’ a hoss whip ’s more ’n my line than a crown an’ scepter.  An’ now,” he added, “’s we’ve got through ’th our bus’nis, s’pose you step over to the house an’ see Polly.  She’s expectin’ on ye to dinner.  Oh, yes,” replying to the look of deprecation in her face as she viewed her shabby frock, “you an’ Polly c’n prink up some if you want to, but we can’t take ‘No’ fer an answer Chris’mus day, clo’es or no clo’es.”

“I’d really like ter,” said Mrs. Cullom.

“All right then,” said David cheerfully.  “The path is swep’ by this time, I guess, an’ I’ll see ye later.  Oh, by the way,” he exclaimed, “the’s somethin’ I fergot.  I want to make you a proposition, ruther an onusual one, but seein’ ev’rythin’ is as ’t is, perhaps you’ll consider it.”