"Then you may go to the village to-night."
"I don't want to go to the village."
For the first time Mr. Hofford appeared to notice his son's air of discontent, and he asked, kindly:
"What's the matter, Roswell? Are you sick?"
"No; I'm just tired out, that's all," replied the boy, giving the table-leg a little kick.
"Tired, are you?"
"Yes, I am. I am worked to death."
Mr. Hofford laughed pleasantly.
"You don't look as if you were in danger of dying. And I don't think you do more work than other boys of your age."
"I don't know about that," rejoined Roswell, in a discontented voice; "but I know I'm working from morning to night. I have to attend to everything in the way of chores, until I'm so tired that I can't read or study. And I never have any time for play."