"Oh, father, how can you speak like that when she's such a good child?" the mother cried in reproachful accents. "She has never given me a moment's anxiety! But, speaking of David, I do wonder what has become of him, and whether he is married or not!"
At that moment two pairs of light footsteps were heard in the yard, and Nellie and Bessie entered, rosy with struggling against the March wind.
"Well, children," their mother said in greeting, as she turned her bright face with its welcoming smile upon them, "are your appetites ready for dinner?"
"Oh, yes!" they both answered, and Nellie went to the hearth and peeped into the crock, remarking:
"How good it smells!"
Bessie sat down on the settle by her grandfather's side and slipped her little, warm fingers into his cold palm.
"How grave you look, Granfer!" she exclaimed, calling him by the name she and her sister had given him. "What have you and mother been talking about?" she added coaxingly.
"About some one you never saw—your Uncle David!" the old man responded, much to the surprise of his daughter, who had never known him mention their uncle to the children before.
"Oh, I've heard of him!" Bessie cried. "He wanted to be an artist, and he went away and never came back again! He used always to be painting pictures, didn't he, Granfer?"
"Yes; neglecting his work and idling his time! He cared nothing for the farm, but was for ever with a pencil or a paint-brush in his hand!"