CHAPTER

XXII.

IN WHICH TROUBLE COMES TO LAKESIDE.

AFTER Woodbury had left Lakeside for his summer tour, Mrs. Fortitude Babb resumed her ancient authority. "Now," she said to Bute, as they sat down to supper on the day of his departure, "now we'll have a quiet time of it. A body'll know what to do without waitin' to be told whether it's jist to other people's likin's."

"Why, Mother Forty," said Bute, "Mr. Max. is as quiet a man as you'll find anywhere."

"Much you know about him, Bute. He lets you go on farmin' in y'r own way, pretty much; but look at my gard'n— tore all to pieces! The curran' bushes away at t'other endhalf a mile off, if you want to git a few pies-and the kersanthums stuck into the yard in big bunches, among the grass! What would she say, if she could see it? And the little

room for bed-clo'es, all cleaned out, and a big bathin' tub in the corner, and to be filled up every night. Thank the Lord, he can't find nothin' to say ag'in my cookin'. If he was to come pokin' his nose into the kitchen every day, I dunno what I'd do!"

"It's his own garden," said Bute, sturdily. "He's paid for it, and he's got a right to do what he pleases with it. would, if 't'was mine."

"Oh yes, you! You're gittin' mighty independent, seems to me. I 'xpect nothin' else but you'll go off some day with that reedic❜lous thing with the curls."

"Mother Forty!" said Bute, rising suddenly from the

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Thereupon the set her was a work to secrer the right Kind of a wide for her step-step-son. It was a perplexing subjest: one girl was samtemi, soccer was besithy, a third was too did, a fourth had disagreeable relatives, 1 il vs s poor a Job's turkey. Where was the compound of youth, heath, tidinesa, thrik, and most important of a the proper reapest for Mr. Bato's faculties? - fod ber yet?" she said to nerve.f, as the sat at her kining, in the drowsy summer afterwons. Meanwhile, her manner towards Bate grew kinder and more considerate-a change for which he was not in the least grateful. He interpreted it as the expression of her watisfaction with the disappointment under which he still marted. He became moody and silent, and before many days had elapsed Mrs. Babb was forced to confess to herself that

Lakeside was lonely and uncomfortable without the presence of Mr. Woodbury.

As for Bute, though he felt that he was irritable and heavy, compared with his usual cheerful mood, there was more the matter with him than he supposed. The experience through which he had passed disturbed the quiet course of his blood. Like a mechanism, the action of which is even and perfectly balanced at a certain rate of speed, but tends to inevitable confusion when the speed is increased, his physical balance was sadly disarranged by the excitement of his emotional nature and the sudden shock which followed it. Days of feverish activity, during which he did the work of two men without finding the comfort of healthy fatigue, were followed by days of weariness and apathy, when the strength seemed to be gone from his arm, and the good-will to labor from his heart. His sleep was either restless and broken, or so unnaturally profound that he arose from it with a stunned, heavy head.

Among the summer's work which Mr. Woodbury had ordered, after wheat-harvest, was the draining of a swampy field which sloped towards Roaring Brook. An Irish ditcher had been engaged to work upon it, but Bute, finding that much more must be done than had been estimated, and restless almost to nervousness, assisted with his own hands. Day after day, with his legs bare to the thighs, he stood in the oozy muck, plying pick and shovel under the burning sun. Night after night, he went to bed with a curiously numb and deadened feeling, varied only by nervous starts and thrills, as if the bed were suddenly sinking under him.

One morning, he did not get up at the usual hour. Mrs. Babb went on with her labors for breakfast, expecting every moment to see him come down and wash his face at the pump outside the kitchen-door. The bacon was fried, the coffee was boiled, and still he did not appear. She opened the door of the kitchen staircase, and called in her shrillest tones, one, two, three times, until finally an answer reached her from the bedroom. Five minutes afterwards, Bute blundered

down the steps, and, seeing the table ready, took his accustomed seat.

"Well, Arbutus, you have slep', sure enough. I s'pose you was tired from yisterday, though,” said Mrs. Babb, as she transferred the bacon from the frying-pan to a queensware dish. Hearing no answer, she turned around. “Gracious alive!” she exclaimed, “are you a-goin' to set down to breakfast without washin' or combin' your hair? I do believe you're asleep yit."

Bute said nothing, but looked at her with a silly smile which seemed to confirm her words.

"Arbutus!" she cried out, "wake up! You don't know what you're about. Dash some water on your face, child; if I ever saw the like!" and she took hold of his shoulder with one of her bony hands.

He twisted it petulantly out of her grasp. "I'm tired, Mike," he said: "if the swamp wasn't so wet, I'd like to lay down and sleep a spell."

The rigid joints of Mrs. Babb's knees seemed to give way suddenly. She dropped into the chair beside him, lifted his face in both her trembling hands, and looked into his eyes. There was no recognition in them, and their wild, wandering glance froze her blood. His cheeks burned like fire, and his head dropped heavily, the next moment, on his shoulder. "This tussock'll do," he murmured, and relapsed into unconsciousness. Mrs. Babb shoved her chair nearer, and allowed his head to rest on her shoulder, while she recovered her strength. There was no one else in the house. Patrick, the field-hand, was at the barn, and was accustomed to be called to his breakfast. Once she attempted to do this, hoping that her voice might reach him, but it was such an unnatural, dismal croak, that she gave up in despair. Bute started and flung one arm around her neck with a convulsive strength which almost strangled her. After that, she did not dare to move or speak. The coffee-pot boiled over, and the scent of the scorched liquid filled the kitchen; the fat in the frying-pan, which she had thought