come straight to her where she sat--in a sturdy way that fixed her
interest instantly and keenly.

"I've come over hyeh to stay with ye," he said simply.

St. Hilda hesitated and distress kept her silent.

"My name's Jason Hawn. I come from t'other side o' the mountain
an' I hain't got no home."

"I'm sorry, little man," she said gently, "but we have no place
for you."

The boy's eyes darted to one side and the other.

"Shucks! I can sleep out thar in that woodshed. I hain't axin' no
favors. I got a leetle money an' I can work like a man."

Now, while St. Hilda's face was strong, her heart was divinely
weak and Jason saw it. Unhesitatingly he climbed the steps, handed
his rifle to her, sat down, and at once began taking stock of
everything about him--the boy swinging an axe at the wood-pile,
the boy feeding the hogs and chickens; another starting off on an
old horse with a bag of corn for the mill, another ploughing the
hill-side. Others were digging ditches, working in a garden,
mending a fence, and making cinder paths. But in all this his
interest was plainly casual until his eyes caught sight of a pile
of lumber at the door of the workshop below, and through the
windows the occasional gleam of some shining tool. Instantly one
eager finger shot out.