She's done her part, and she's had more than her share of hard knocks. If
she was tough, to sta't with, she's had blows enough to meller her. But
that's the way I account for the boy. I s'pose--I'd oughtn't to feel the
way I do about him, but he's such a pest to the whole neighborhood that
he'd have the most pop'la' fune'l. Well, I guess I've said enough. I'm
much obliged to you, though, Mr.--"

"Westover," the painter suggested. "But the boy isn't so bad all the
time."

"Couldn't be," said Whitwell, with a cackle of humorous enjoyment. "He
has his spells of bein' decent, and he's pootty smart, too. But when the
other spell ketches him it's like as if the devil got a-hold of him, as I
said in the first place. I lost my wife here two-three years along back,
and that little girl you see him tormentin', she's a regular little
mother to her brother; and whenever Jeff Durgin sees her with him, seems
as if the Old Scratch got into him. Well, I'm glad I didn't come across
him that day. How you gittin' along with Lion's Head? Sets quiet enough
for you?" Whitwell rose from the stump and brushed the clinging chips
from his thighs. "Folks trouble you any, lookin' on?"

"Not yet," said Westover.

"Well, there ain't a great many to," said Whitwell, going back to his
axe. "I should like to see you workin' some day. Do' know as I ever saw
an attist at it."

"I should like to have you," said Westover. "Any time."

"All right." Whitwell pulled his axe out of the carf, and struck it in