yo'm coomin' along gradely." He leant back in his chair the better
to criticise his subject. But Andrew, like all the Moores, slow of
speech, preserved a stolid silence, sucking a chubby thumb, and
regarding his patron a thought cynically.

David resented the expression on the boy's countenance, and half
rose to his feet.

"Yo' put another face on yo', Andrew Moore," he cried
threateningly, "or I'll put it for yo'."

Maggie, however, interposed opportunely.

"Did yo' feyther beat yo' last night?" she inquired in a low voice;
and there was a shade of anxiety in the soft brown eyes.

"Nay," the boy answered; "he was a-goin' to, but he never did.
Drunk," he added in explanation.

"What was he goin' to beat yo' for, David?" asked Mrs. Moore.

"What for? Why, for the fun o't--to see me squiggle, "the boy
replied, and laughed bitterly.

"Yo' shouldna speak so o' your dad, David," reproved the other as
severely as was in her nature.

"Dad! a fine dad! I'd dad him an I'd the chance, " the boy muttered
beneath his breath. Then, to turn the conversation: