Aunt Judith, busy with a bit of needlework, looked often at the boy
as he bent eagerly over his book, and marvelled that this was the same
boy who less than a year ago was a trial to every owner of a garden
or orchard.

A puzzled frown puckered his forehead one evening as he worked.

"What is it?" she asked. "Can I help you?"

"Maybe I'll _have_ to let you, but I _think_ I can do it. I'd like to
work it out if I can, and I'll try _hard_ before I give up."

For a time he worked in silence, covering his slate with figures.

The clock ticked loudly on the mantel, and seemed to be trying to outdo
Gyp's busy pencil.

"Scratch! Scratch!" went the pencil, and "Tick! Tick!" chirped the
little clock, and then the boy looked up, his eyes bright with
excitement.

"I've done it, Mrs. Aunt Judith!" he cried, "I've done it, and it's
right! You said it was better for me to do everything that I _could_
do, by studying and working, instead of being helped."

"It is better, because you will fully understand what you have done,
and you will be more likely to remember it.

"But tell me," she said, laying her hand on his shoulder, "why do you
call me _Mrs._ Aunt Judith?"