one day--and understood.

"Hester," he cried sharply, "put out your foot."

Hester did not hear--apparently. She lowered the paper she was reading
and laughed a little hysterically.

"Such a good joke, Jeremiah!" she quavered. "Just let me read it. A man--"

"Hester, be them the best shoes you've got?" demanded Jeremiah.

And Hester, with a wisdom born of fifty years' experience of that
particular tone of voice, dropped her paper and her subterfuge, and said
gently: "Yes, Jeremiah."

There was a moment's pause; then Jeremiah sprang to his feet, thrust his
hands into his pockets, and paced the tiny bedroom from end to end.

"Hester, this thing's a-killin' me!" he blurted out at last. "Here I'm
seventy-eight years old--an' I hain't got money enough ter buy my wife a
pair of shoes!"

"But the farm, Jeremiah--"

"I tell ye the farm ain't mine," cut in Jeremiah savagely. "Look a-here,
Hester, how do you s'pose it feels to a man who's paid his own way since
he was a boy, bought a farm with his own money an' run it, brought up
his boys an' edyercated 'em--how do ye s'pose it feels fur that man ter
go ter his own son an' say: 'Please, sir, can't I have a nickel ter buy
me a pair o' shoestrings?' How do ye s'pose it feels? I tell ye, Hester,