her pick up the tin water-pail; "I'll start right in now and get my hand in," he laughed.

"You always were a hustler, Bob, even if you don't grow very fast," she said, looking at his over-large clothes, as he left the kitchen.

"I hope your Uncle Joe will remember that you're not grown and can't do a man's work, even if you're willing to try," she said on his return, as she watched him set the pail of water on the kitchen table.

"Why, I'm eighteen now, grandma, and weigh one hundred and ten pounds," he answered stoutly.

"Well, this is a big farm, Bob, and it's gotten pretty well run down in the last few years with your Uncle Joe out West and your grandfather feeling too poorly to do much more than look after the crops," she said.

"Are there big fortunes to be found in the West, grandma?" he asked a moment later.

"No bigger than right here, Bob," she replied. "It's only a matter of work, and I'm beginning to believe that after all it is as much a matter of managing properly as working hard. Do you know that your grandfather and I are going to move to town as soon as your Uncle Joe gets married?"

"Why, no, I didn't--who'll look after things here when you go away?" asked Bob.

"Oh, your new aunt will see to that," she replied. "I hope you'll like her, Bob."

"Who is she and what does she look like?" he inquired with boyish eagerness.

"She used to be a school teacher and lived with us while she taught our school," she replied; "that's how your Uncle Joe met her. She has plenty of good looks--too many, I sometimes think, for a farmer's wife--and she is a real New England Yankee woman, who doesn't know how to milk cows."

"How could any one be too good-looking to be a farmer's wife, grandma?" laughed Bob. "Why should good looks keep her from being successful?"

"Well, you see, Bob, nice white hands are generally spoiled by rough work," said the old lady.

"But why will she have to do the rough work when she comes here?" persisted Bob.

"Oh, I guess she won't have any to do--at least, that's what your Uncle Joe says," replied his grandmother with a haughty toss of her head. "That's what he's got you down on the farm for."

"Oh," said Bob, dryly, "and so that's why he was so extremely anxious for me to come."

"Yes, that's why, Bob--you might as well know sooner as later, that you're going to be a pretty busy boy this summer. Your Uncle Joe is so big and strong that he never gets tired and doesn't know when to quit, and he expects every one else to work just as hard and as long as he does. Besides," she added, "I don't think he'll want HIS wife to spoil her nice white hands."

"What's her name?" inquired Bob, not in the least worried by his grandmother's gloomy predictions.

"Betsy Atwood--but your uncle calls her Bettie," replied his grandmother.

"Aunt Bettie," repeated Bob. "A pretty name!"

"H'm!" sniffed his grandmother. "I'm certainly glad you like it, and I hope you'll like her as well--it will help to make the work seem easier to you."

"Why, there's grandfather and Uncle Joe now," said Bob a moment later, as he glanced through the kitchen window toward the barn, and catching up his cap he rushed out to greet them.

Joe Williams was a typical farmer, tall, deep-chested and straight as an arrow. He stood six feet in his stockings and weighed two hundred and ten pounds, and could toss a barrel of salt on the tailboard of a wagon without losing his happy smile. He was twenty-seven years old, and there was not a farmer in the county who could beat him at feats of strength or endurance, and few indeed who could keep pace with him. He had black hair and blue eyes. Books had little attraction for him-- he loved to be in the open, for which his great size and strength seemed to fit him. He had received little education beyond the country school, unless could be counted the two years he had spent working on farms in the great West, where he probably would have stayed had it not been for the brown eyes of Bettie Atwood and an offer from his father, now old and failing in health, to sell him the old place at his own terms.

"Hello, Bob!" he called as his nephew came forward, "sorry we missed you. The bus driver said you'd left on foot for the farm when you didn't see us around. How've you been lately?"

"Oh, I'm all right," replied Bob.

"Hello, grandfather!" he called, as he went round to the side of the wagon to greet his grandfather.

"You don't seem to grow much, Bob," he laughed, as he shook hands. "Cooped up too much in that grocery store--you need the open air of the country to stretch you out. Just look at your Uncle Joe there--see what the country has done for him."

"Oh, I'll grow all right, grandfather. I like the country and the open-air life, too, and father says I may take up farming work if I want to."

The team was soon put away, and shortly after supper Bob, too sleepy to keep his eyes open, went to bed.

II

A DAY'S WORK

"Bob! Bob! Time to get up and do your chores."

The sleepy boy rolled over, rubbed his eyes and sat up, trying to remember where he was and who was calling him; then he recognized the voice of his uncle, and jumped quickly out of bed.

"All right, Uncle Joe, I'm coming," he answered, as he felt around in the dark for his clothes, for he had neglected to provide himself with matches to light the oil lamp that stood near by on the dresser.

His clothes were simple, and getting up before dawn was no new experience for him. A few moments later he hurried down to the kitchen, where his uncle, who had just finished stirring the kitchen fire, was filling the tea-kettle.

"Well!--are you up for all day, Bob?" he inquired cheerily.

"I will be as soon as I get awake," he answered, as he started for the rain barrel for water to wash.

As the water in the well was hard, rain water was used for washing, except in winter, when the barrels were frozen solidly. The early spring rains had filled the barrels again, but as the night had been cold, ice had frozen over the top. His uncle had been to the barrel ahead of him and broken the ice, so he dipped up the basin full of water, and placing it on a bench on the porch, washed his face and hands.

Above the wash bench, summer and winter, hung the roller towel, and near by the mirror and family horn comb. In the dark the mirror was of doubtful use, but with a few well-directed strokes of the comb he managed to get a semblance, at least, of neatness to his hair. He shivered a little as he finished--just as his uncle appeared, milk pails and lantern in hand.

"I want you to do the milking from now on, Bob, for it's not the kind of work a woman should do," said his uncle, and handing him the pails, they started for the barn.

"You're right, Uncle Joe," replied Bob. "I always milked our cow at home so mother wouldn't have to do it; besides, it doesn't take so very long."

Bob had been taught to take good care of the family cow--a well-bred Guernsey, whose stable had a good cement floor and was neatly whitewashed. Once or twice a week he would curry-comb and brush her from nose to tail. Nothing gave him greater pride than to have his father bring some one unexpectedly into the stable to look at his charge and comment on the clean manner in which both stable and cow were kept. His mother sold the milk they did not need for their own use, and had no trouble in getting two cents a quart more than the regular price--partly on account of the cow being so well bred and giving rich milk, but principally on account of the reputation the clean stable had made in the village.

The cow barn that Bob now entered was built under a portion of the main barn, adjacent to the thrashing floor, and was dark, even in the daylight. The earthen floor was foul with neglect. The cows, instead of being secured in separate stalls with stanchions, were chained up in a row to a long, old-fashioned manger.

Upon entering, Bob's uncle hung up the lantern; then, seeing Bob look around and hesitate, asked:

"What are you looking for, Bob?"

"I was looking for a fork to clean the stable. I always clean the stable and brush off the cow at home before milking," he replied.

"Well, I guess you're a little late to start that here," laughed his uncle. "Never mind the floor; we'll back the wagon in here after breakfast and give it a good cleaning."

"All right, Uncle Joe; but where's the brush?" asked Bob.