the frozen creeks, and scarcity of flour and meal.

"The meal is nearly out now," said David's mother. "The negroes
waste it."

"We might shell some corn to-day," suggested David's father,
hesitatingly. It was the first time since his son's return from
college that he had ever proposed their working together.

"I'll take a look at the woods first," said David; "and then I want
to make a place in the stable for the sheep, father. They must come
under shelter to-night I'll fix new stalls for the horses inside
where we used to have the corn crib. The cows can go where the
horses have been, and the sheep can have the shed of the cows: it's
better than nothing. I've been wanting to do this ever since I came
home from college."

A thoughtless, unfortunate remark, as connected with that shabby,
desperate idea of finding shelter for the stock--fresh reminder of
the creeping, spreading poverty. His father made no rejoinder; and
having finished his breakfast in silence, left the table.

His mother, looking across her coffeecup and biscuit at David,
without change of expression inquired,--

"Will you get that hen?"

"WHAT hen, mother?"

"I told you last night the cook wanted one of the old hens for soup