is to go from town to town and have every door shut in your face. You
don't think that this is a hard-hearted, stingy old world, because it
has given you the cream of everything. But if you'd never had anything
all your life but other people's scraps and leavings, and you hadn't any
home or friends or money, and was sick besides, you'd think things
wasn't very evenly divided. Wouldn't you now? You'd think it wasn't
right that some should have all that heart can wish, and others not
enough to keep soul and body together. If you'd a-happened to be Jonesy,
and Jonesy had a-happened to 'a' been you, I reckon you'd feel it was
pretty tough to see such a big difference between you. It doesn't seem
fair now, does it?"

"No," admitted Malcolm, faintly. He had taken a dislike to the man. He
could not have told why, but his child instinct armed him with a sudden
distrust. Still, he felt the force of the whining appeal, and the burden
of an obligation to help them seemed laid upon his shoulders.

"Grandmother is afraid for anybody to sleep in the barn, on account of
fire," he said, after a moment's thought, "and I'm sure she wouldn't let
you come into the house without you'd had a bath and some clean clothes.
Grandmother is dreadfully particular," he added, hastily, not wanting to
be impolite even to a tramp. "Seems to me Keith and I have to spend half
our time washing our hands and putting on clean collars."

"Oh, I know a place," cried Keith. "There's that empty cabin down by the
spring-house. Nobody has lived in it since the new servants' cottage was
built. There isn't any furniture in it, but there's a fireplace in one
room, and it would be warmer than the barn."

"That's just the trick!" exclaimed Malcolm. "We can carry a pile of hay