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Mr. Beavers, who had been doing this talking with strict attention to his eating, now looked up for the first time and attempted to peer through the darkness of the kitchen. There was something primitive in the way he halted his chewing and swallowing to stare through the glow of the lamp at the girl beyond. When he saw he could make out nothing at all he said, "Could you bring me a glass of watter, please, young lady? I'm powerful thirsty."

"I vence you air after yore drunk," said the Squire's wife sympathetically. She evidently looked upon all "drunks" as disasters which overtook young men at more or less untimely intervals. She brought the water herself in a glass tumbler tinted with green.

Mr. Beavers drank thirstily and then finished his high-piled plate. Then after two quarter sections of pie, he tipped his chair back comfortably until his body and legs were in a straight line, resting on the front edge of the seat and the top slat of the back. "Best breakfust I ever et," he said, drawing a long breath and patting his stomach. "Yes, sir, the best one I ever et. Yore gal shore does cook good chicken and make fine pies, Mr. Meredith. She shore is goin' to make some man a fine wife." He sighed with comfort, then leaned forward with a bang and said sharply, "Well, I guess I better be goin'. I signed up fer that railroad job, an' I want to start with the gang this mornin'."

The old woman came forward. "You better eat some more, Mr. Beavers; you ain't et enough to keep a bird alive."

"I think I done purty well," said Mr. Beavers politely, as he glanced over the stripped dishes.

"You must come back some time an' see us, Mr. Beavers, workin' so clost like this."

"Shore will," accepted Mr. Beavers heartily.

"Now, Ma," put in the Squire bluntly, "you know these young folks ain't goin' to have no time fer nothin' like what you've got in yore head when the whole caboodle is goin'