I'VE told you something about Jake, our 

 hill-man friend who used to chop wood for us 

 once in a while when his meal-sack was empty. 

 I've told you, too, that poor Jake is dead. He 

 was an odd chap ; but there was no bad in him, 

 so he must have been all good. 



His mother has just been down to see us. 

 She doesn't know how old she is, but she is a 

 very old woman, much stooped and all 

 shrunken away in her husk. She always makes 

 me think of a line of Knickerbocker History 

 which observes that if a woman waxes fat as 

 she grows old her tenure of life is precarious, 

 "but if haply as the years pass she wither, she 

 lives forever." That's what Jake's mother 

 seems in a fair way of doing. She must be 

 well on toward ninety ; but her eyes are bright 

 with an unquenchable brightness. There was 

 a new light in them this morning. 



She was very fond of Jake and very proud 

 of him, for a reason mothers have. Sometimes 



202 



