"Now look here," Jim began when they were through with dinner, "I've a
big pile of wood out there in the yard, an' I want ye to tote it into
the wood-house an' pile it up. I'll show ye where to put it. I'm
gittin' mighty little fer yer keep, an' I expect ye to git a hustle on
to help pay fer yer grub an' washin'."

"Don't be too hard on him, Jim," Mrs. Goban remarked. "He doesn't look
very strong."

"Don't ye worry, Kitty, I'll attend to that. I know a wrinkle or two."

David was accordingly taken to the wood-house and Jim explained to him
how and where he was to pile the wood. "Ye needn't kill yerself," he
told him in conclusion. "But I want ye to keep busy, fer when that
job's through I've got something else on hand. Ye can sit down when ye
feel a little tired, but don't sit too long or too often, see?"

For about half an hour David worked patiently at the wood, piling it as
neatly as possible. The work was not hard, and he was quite satisfied
with his task. He was alone, anyway, and could think about his beloved
falls. His hands, however, were soft, and ere long they were bruised
and bleeding from the rough sticks. At length a sharp splinter entered
his finger, and he sat down upon a stick to pull it out. In trying to
do this, it broke off leaving a portion deeply embedded in the flesh,
which caused him considerable pain. Not knowing what to do, he sat
looking upon the finger in a dejected manner.

"What's the matter? You seem to be in trouble."