"No," answered Harvey, sitting up very straight. "No, I haven't heard anything—has anything happened?"
"Oh, nothin' terrible important. Only he's off for Africa—went last week. He was foolin' an' fiddlin' round, spongin' on his father—an' he got into one or two little scrapes. An' his father kind o' got tired of it—an' Cecil got a chance of some kind of a job with some company that's buildin' a railroad or somethin' in South Africa. An' the old man let him go—so he's gone," David concluded earnestly, "an' I reckon punchin' mules is about the highest position o' trust he'll be occupyin'. Let's go into the house."
"Is Cecil going to stay long in Africa?" Harvey asked as they walked along.
"He won't likely be back to tea very often," ventured David. "Jemima! I'm so short in the wind now," his breath coming fast. "I don't much calculate he'll be back till the walkin's good—unless the old man fetches him," a droll smile showing on David's face, as they entered the little house.
"Sorry Madeline's not in," Mr. Borland began as he sank into a chair; "she works pretty steady now, poor child—they say she's a reg'lar dabster at that wood-work. She paints chiny too," he went on, pride in the voice—"I think she's out at Hyman's, burnin' it, this evenin'. Sit down, Harvey," motioning towards a chair, for his guest was standing in a spasm of attentiveness. "It's a bit different from the old place, ain't it?" as he looked round the humble room.
"It's just as good," said Harvey bluntly, rather at a loss.
"That's where you're shoutin'," David responded, something of his old-time vigour in the tone. "It's jest every bit as good. When I'm settin' here in the evenin'—I don't work so very hard; they gave me a nice easy job at the office—an' Madeline's puttin' on my slippers or runnin' her fingers round my old gray head, when I shut my eyes I can't tell the difference. Never did set in only one chair," he mused as if to himself, "never did wear but one pair o' slippers, never did have but one Madeline to cure my headaches an' my heartaches an' everythin' like that. An' I like the lamp better'n the old sulky gas—an' we've got the best pump in the county," he went on enthusiastically—"right out there; it's far better'n the old tap water. So we're jest as happy, Harvey."
Harvey smiled, and lovingly, at the beaming face.
"An' I can prove it," the old man suddenly resumed. "I can prove it," he repeated eagerly. "See that fireplace there?" pointing to the hearth on which the wood was already laid. "Put a match to it, Harvey—you're younger than me. Set it agoin', Harvey, an' I'll show you—it's gettin' coolish, anyhow."
Harvey did as directed. The shavings led the flame upward to the little twigs, and the twigs hurried it on to the willing cedar, and the cedar lit the way to the gnarled pine knots; these opened their bosoms to the flame and soon the leaping tongues began their glad crusade against the shadows, a revelry of sight and sound flooding the room with light and music.