"Dad," said he, that night, while eating his supper, "I wish I knew how to
read. All the boys in this settlement can read and write. Ain't I old
enough to begin?"

"You're old enough, lad, but we live a long way from the schoolhouse, and
when you were little it was too far for you to walk. You might go this
winter, when there's spare time, if you don't mind the distance."

"I don't mind that, dad, but all the rest will know so much that they'll
make fun of me. I only know a few of my letters, and mother taught me them
before she died."

"She did, lad, she did, God bless her," and a huskiness came into Mr.
Flitter's voice as he spoke. "If she were alive now you would know as much
as any boy of your age, for your mother was a smart one, and I guess you
take after her, Dan.

"I wish I had her now," and the boy gave a deep eigh. "She'd help me every
night, and I wouldn't be stupid any more."

Mr. Flitter made no reply to these words. He finished his supper in
silence, and while Dan washed the few dishes he sat thoughtfully smoking
his old clay pipe.

"Laddie," he remarked as they were preparing for bed, "I've been having
deep thoughts to-night, and I've come to the conclusion that I haven't
done right by you. I've neglected you too much."

"In what way, dad?" questioned the boy.