"Mother's bad again with her head. She says to tell you to come in quiet, and sleep on the sofa tonight. I started to wash up and clean up the kitchen, father, but I got sick."
"Why, what is the matter with you, sonny?" His voice quickened, and he held the candle down to the child's face.
"Oh, nothing much, father. I felt sick, but I feel better now."
"What have you been eating?"
"Nothing that I know of; I think it was the hot weather, father."
The father spread the mattress, blew out the candle, and lay down in his clothes. After a while the boy began to toss restlessly.
"Oh, it's too hot, father," he said. "I'm smothering."
The father got up, lit the candle, took a corner of the newspaper-covered "scrim" lining that screened the cracks of the slab wall, and tore it away; then he propped open the door with a chair.
"Oh, that's better already, father," said the boy.
The hut was three rooms long and one deep, with a verandah in front and a skillion, harness and tool room, about half the length, behind. The father opened the door of the next room softly, and propped that open, too. There was another boy on the sofa, younger than the first, but healthy and sturdy-looking. He had nothing on him but a very dirty shirt, a patchwork quilt was slipping from under him, and most of
