tergiversation. "Don't bother your poor father, Phemie, love; don't you
see he's just tired out? And you're not eatin' anything, dad."

As Mr. Harkutt was uneasily conscious that he had been eating heartily
in spite of his financial difficulties, he turned the subject abruptly.
"Where's John Milton?"

Mrs. Harkutt shaded her eyes with her hand, and gazed meditatively on
the floor before the fire and in the chimney corner for her only son,
baptized under that historic title. "He was here a minit ago," she said
doubtfully. "I really can't think where he's gone. But," assuringly, "it
ain't far."

"He's skipped with one o' those story-books he's borrowed," said Phemie.
"He's always doin' it. Like as not he's reading with a candle in the
wood-shed. We'll all be burnt up some night."

"But he's got through his chores," interposed Mrs. Harkutt
deprecatingly.

"Yes," continued Harkutt, aggrievedly, "but instead of goin' to bed, or
addin' up bills, or takin' count o' stock, or even doin' sums or suthin'
useful, he's ruinin' his eyes and wastin' his time over trash." He rose
and walked slowly into the sitting-room, followed by his daughter and a
murmur of commiseration from his wife. But Mrs. Harkutt's ministration
for the present did not pass beyond her domain, the kitchen.

"I reckon ye ain't expectin' anybody tonight, Phemie?" said Mr. Harkutt,
sinking into a chair, and placing his slippered feet against the wall.