of Pat's achievements. This morning he was showing what he could do.

"This permotion is pretty foine," said Mrs. O'Callaghan. "Moike, my b'y,
you have stepped up aisy loike a gintleman into Pat's place, and now
let's see you cook."

Mike looked crestfallen at once. "I can't cook, mother," he said. "Not
the least in the world. Often and often I've watched Pat, but I never
could get the hang of it."

The widow was silent a moment,

"Well, then!" she cried, "you've got the hang of bein' an honest b'y,
and not pretindin' to do what you can't do, and that's better as bein'
the best cook in the world. Niver do you pretind, Moike, not because
there's always somebody about to foind you out, but because pretindin's
mean. I'd have no pride left in me if I could think I had a pretindin'
b'y about the house. And now, Moike, I'll teach you to cook. It's my
belafe you can larn it. Why, Pat didn't know nothin' about it when he
begun, and now he can cook meat and potatoes and such better as many a
doless girl I've seen. You think Pat's cookin' tastes pretty good, don't
you, Moike?"

"I do, mother," said Mike earnestly and without a tinge of jealousy in
his tone. He loved and admired Pat with all his heart.

"You can larn it, too, if you only think so," encouraged Mrs.
O'Callaghan.

"There's them that think's that cookin's a special gift, and they're