By Myra Hamilton.
"Caleb! Where are you?"
"Here, mother," he cried, suddenly rising from one of the hay-cocks upon which he had been resting. He took the little bundle from her hand without one word of thanks, and then he slowly untied the red cotton handkerchief and began to eat his dinner.
"What is the matter with you, my lad?" his mother asked him. "You seem very cross to-day."
Caleb nodded his head moodily.
"I feel cross," he assented. Then he looked searchingly at his mother.
"Don't you want to be rich?" he demanded.
The old woman was horrified at the thought of it.
"Rich? Heaven forbid! I am quite content to live in our little cottage by the stream. I do not dread the cold winter approaching, for you are such a good son to me that I know I shall lack naught."