with a startled glance up at his face. Little Eric dropped his
towel, threw an arm about Nils and one about Hilda, gave them a
clumsy squeeze, and then stumbled out to the porch.

During supper Nils heard exactly how much land each of his
eight grown brothers farmed, how their crops were coming on, and
how much livestock they were feeding. His mother watched him
narrowly as she talked. "You've got better looking, Nils," she
remarked abruptly, whereupon he grinned and the children giggled.
Eric, although he was eighteen and as tall as Nils, was always
accounted a child, being the last of so many sons. His face seemed
childlike, too, Nils thought, and he had the open, wandering eves
of a little boy. All the others had been men at his age.

After supper Nils went out to the front porch and sat down on
the step to smoke a pipe. Mrs. Ericson drew a rocking-chair up
near him and began to knit busily. It was one of the few Old World
customs she had kept up, for she could not bear to sit with idle
hands.

"Where's little Eric, Mother?"

"He's helping Hilda with the dishes. He does it of his own
will; I don't like a boy to be too handy about the house."

"He seems like a nice kid."

"He's very obedient."

Nils smiled a little in the dark. It was just as well to