"I want to give you the best," answered his father, with a touch of comicality about the lines of his face.
"Are you afraid I shall work them too hard?"
"That's just what I'm afraid they'd do for you."
He went out; and his son attended to his breakfast in silence, with a raised eyebrow and a curved lip.
"What do you want, Winthrop?" the mother presently called to her second son, who had disappeared, and was rummaging somewhere behind the scenes.
"Only a basket, mamma," — came from the pantry.
His mother got up from table, and basket in hand followed him, to where he was busy with a big knife in the midst of her stores. Slices of bread were in course of buttering, and lay in ominous number piled up on the yellow shelf. Hard by stood a bowl of cold boiled potatoes. He was at work with dexterity as neat-handed and as quick as a woman's.
"There's no pork there, Governor," his mother whispered as he stooped to the cupboard, — "your father made an end of that last night; — but see — here —"
And from another quarter she brought out a pie. Being made of dried apples, it was not too juicy to cut; and being cut into huge pieces they were stowed into the basket, lapping over each other, till little room was left; and cheese and gingerbread went in to fill that. And then as her hands pressed the lid down and his hands took the basket, the eyes met, and a quick little smile of great brilliancy, that entirely broke up the former calm lines of his face, answered her; for he said nothing. And the mother's "Now go!" — was spoken as if she had enough of him left at home to keep her heart warm for the rest of the day.
The two ploughmen set forth with their teams. Or ploughboys rather; for the younger of them as yet had seen not sixteen years. His brother must have been several in advance of him.