trout which he had just caught in the pond. His stove consisted
of a circle of red stones, with a fire kindled in it, and his
culinary utensils were an old tin can, hammered out flat, and a
fork with only one tine left. Nevertheless, ripping good meals
had before now been thus prepared.

Jem was the child of the House of Dreams. All the others had
been born at Ingleside. He had curly red hair, like his
mother's, and frank hazel eyes, like his father's; he had his
mother's fine nose and his father's steady, humorous mouth. And
he was the only one of the family who had ears nice enough to
please Susan. But he had a standing feud with Susan because she
would not give up calling him Little Jem. It was outrageous,
thought thirteen-year-old Jem. Mother had more sense.

"I'm NOT little any more, Mother," he had cried indignantly, on
his eighth birthday. "I'm AWFUL big."

Mother had sighed and laughed and sighed again; and she never
called him Little Jem again--in his hearing at least.

He was and always had been a sturdy, reliable little chap. He
never broke a promise. He was not a great talker. His teachers
did not think him brilliant, but he was a good, all-round
student. He never took things on faith; he always liked to
investigate the truth of a statement for himself. Once Susan had
told him that if he touched his tongue to a frosty latch all the
skin would tear off it. Jem had promptly done it, "just to see
if it was so." He found it was "so," at the cost of a very sore
tongue for several days. But Jem did not grudge suffering in the