sure steps he crossed the room and entered the little kitchen.

Half of the bacon was black; the other half was transparent and
like tough jelly. The potatoes were soggy, and had the
unmistakable taste that comes from a dish that has boiled dry.
The coffee was lukewarm and muddy. Even the milk was sour.

David laughed a little ruefully.

"Things aren't so nice as yours, father," he apologized. "I'm
afraid I'm nothing but a discord in that orchestra to-day!
Somehow, some of the stove was hotter than the rest, and burnt up
the bacon in spots; and all the water got out of the potatoes,
too,--though THAT didn't matter, for I just put more cold in. I
forgot and left the milk in the sun, and it tastes bad now; but
I'm sure next time it'll be better--all of it."

The man smiled, but he shook his head sadly.

"But there ought not to be any 'next time,' David."

"Why not? What do you mean? Aren't you ever going to let me try
again, father?" There was real distress in the boy's voice.

The man hesitated. His lips parted with an indrawn breath, as if
behind them lay a rush of words. But they closed abruptly, the
words still unsaid. Then, very lightly, came these others:--

"Well, son, this isn't a very nice way to treat your supper, is
it? Now, if you please, I'll take some of that bacon. I think I