The paternal Betterson was just then returning from a little walk about his estate. As he approached, hat in hand, wiping his noble forehead, under the shade of the oaks, Rufe addressed him.
"We've got to have wood in the house; now she's come, it won't do to get it by little driblets, and have her waiting for it and worrying about it. I'll saw it, if you'll only set the saw; you know how, and I don't; we'll do the hard work if you'll furnish a little of your skill."
Rufe knew how to appeal to the paternal vanity. The idea of furnishing, not labor, but skill, flattered my lord.
"Ah! let me look at the saw. And bring me the file. And set out the shave-horse. I'll show you how the thing is done."
When Link, who in the mean while had been dressing the prairie chickens behind the house, came round and saw his pompous papa sitting under an oak-tree, astride the "shave-horse," filing away at the saw held in its clumsy jaws, and Wad turning the grindstone close by, while Rufe held on the axe, he ran into the house laughing.
"Mother! just look out there! Father and Rufe and Wad all at work at once! Guess the world's coming to an end!"
"I hope some of our troubles are coming to an end," sighed poor Mrs. Betterson, who sat nursing her babe with a bottle. "It's all owing to her. A new broom sweeps clean. She brings a very good influence; but I can't hope it will last."
"O mother!" said Cecie, from her lounge, "don't say that. I am sure it will last; she is so good! You'll do all you can for her, won't you, Link?"
"I bet!" was Link's laconic response. "If they only will, too, for there ain't much fun in doing chores while father and Rufe and Wad are just loafing round."
He hastened to Vinnie with his chickens.