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“She can’t, you know; she and sister have to work hard to make what we spend now. I don’t do half enough myself.” “Why, I wonder? She used to watch us at it and laugh.” But ideas came flooding into Betty’s active mind. The desire to fill her box, augmented by an even greater desire to let Moses see she didn’t need his shekels, sent electrical energy to her brain..

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“S’posin’ the pore little critter’s hidin’ there, shiverin’ an’ chatterin’, afeerd o’ them orful pirates,” he soliloquised, while large drops of moisture gathered on his brow at the thought. As he hurried along he encountered a branch which hung low and like a scalpel lifted the straw hat from the head of the astonished boy. Another sound in a somewhat higher key was heard. Moses had simply modulated in his domestic symphony of labor from a major task to a minor one. As a change and refreshing recreation, Moses was allowed to turn the small wheat-mill. Ninety soul-stirring turns it required to empty the hopper once, and he must turn out enough flour for a batch of bread. His youthful soul was in revolt at such servitude. He had no sympathy to squander on the children of Israel in bondage vile. Making bricks for Pharoah was infantile amusement compared to his labor. “Why yes Betty, what do you suppose they will talk about?” “Oh, Miss Gordon, here’s my name,” announced Betty, excitedly, pointing to a central part of the quilt. “An’ here’s yours right clost to it.”.