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“Ain’t she her own aunt?” hazarded Mr. Wopp, abstractedly thrusting his hammer into his boot top and scratching his bald head with a pair of pincers. She smiled faintly. “Then my feelings must be bloodthirsty, Billy. How dreadful!” “‘Mosey’? Does that mean ‘little Moses’?”.

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Fer our reapin’ bye ’n’ bye.” Moses’ teeth chattered. It was not cold, but wash-day meant to the unhappy boy a dismal round of duties. His mood grew more thoughtful. He put the dishes away quietly, and neither spoke again till the work was finished. Then he went and kissed her on the cheek. “It’s good to have you all to myself, little mother; to be just chums once more.” They were a happy lot. Each held some high-sounding position, the name coined in Billy’s busy brain. His box of abused tools came forth; the much mended wheelbarrow, picks, shovels wobbly from use as well as abuse, improvised things that only an imagination as large as Billy’s could have named tools,—something for each one there..