day when Rose, occupied with a large washing in the morning and
heavy work in the dairy in the afternoon, realized with
compunction that never had she come so near to neglecting her
boy. Tired and hot from fretting, he had been slow about going to
sleep, and was just dozing off, when Martin came in, worn out and
hungry.

"Isn't supper ready yet?"

"All but frying the sausage," Rose answered, achieving a pleasant
tone in spite of her jadedness. "He's almost turning the
corner--hear his little sleepy song? Sit down and cool off. I'll
have it ready by the time you and the boys are washed."

Under its thick coat of tan, Martin's face went white. "I've had
enough of this," he announced levelly. "You'll put him down and
fry that meat."

"Wait just a minute," she coaxed; "he'll be off for the night and
if you wake him, he'll cry and get all worked up."

"You heard what I said." His tone was vibrant with determination.
"How am I going to keep hired men if you treat them like this?
When they come in to eat, they want to find their food on the
table."

"This doesn't often happen any more and they know, good and well,
I make it up to them in other ways," returned Rose truthfully.

For answer, he crossed over to her quickly, reached down and took