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Rh "We'll get the wheelwright to do it up in the mornin'" said Smith.

"But I can't pay to have it mended," complained Mr. Sandbach, ruefully.

"Never you mind, put it down to me," said Smith, reassuringly; "it's paid for already. Last night's return at the store showed as I'd passed the red credit-line. They rules a line in red when a fellow gets into the right side of the books."

"Best thing you can do with your first credit, Sam," remarked his wife.

"You know that po'try Miss Maud painted in red and gold, and that Parson Brown framed and hanged up in the club-room," added the irrepressible Sar' Ann—

"Mr. Brown says that poetry were made by the best parson ever lived these days—'Big-Gun Kingsley' they calls him, or some'ut o' that kind."

"'Canon,' you mean," says her father, "but it's all along the same. Parson Brown says it 'ud do his eyes good to see this place. He loved the poor, and the country, though they did leave him to die alone, and no notice taken on him, 'cause he spoke up for the people."

"Come on, Sandbach, bring the lady and the kiddies in," continued Mr. Smith. "You'll have to camp the night, I'm thinkin'. Come in and welcome."

Mr. Sandbach was overcome by the warmth of his reception. His wife, carrying a baby, that seemed to have drawn all the life from her hungered frame—the one of all the family that appeared to have thrived—at her expense—was speedily deposited in a be-cushioned