"Yes; and so I would if that baby was a boy," said Willy, thoughtfully; "but she's only a girl—couldn't help me bring in chips, you know. Guess I don't want a girl-baby."

Caleb laughed at this very quietly, but his whole frame was shaking; and Willy turned round and looked him in the eye with strong displeasure.

"What you laughing at, Cale Cushing? You mustn't make fun of my bossy. I'll tell you what I'll do with her. I'll keep her to haul hay with."

"Did you ever see one ox hauling hay alone, Willy?"

"No; but I'll have a little cart, and then she can."

"But the trouble is, Willy, your ox might feel lonesome."

"Well, I'll buy one ox more, and then he won't be lonesome."

"Ah! but, Willy, oxen cost money."

"'Sif I didn't know that! How much money do they cost, Caleb?"

"Sometimes more, sometimes less. Pretty high this winter, for hay is plenty. There was a man along from the west'ard, and, Willy, what think he offered your pa for that brindled yoke of his?"

"Three dollars?"

"Seventy-five dollars; and your pa wouldn't let 'em go under ninety! Think of that," added Caleb, dropping his voice, and appearing to talk to the beech-wood fire, which was crackling in the big fireplace. "Think of that! Ninety dollars! Enough to buy a small farm! Just what I should have got in the logging-swamp, winter before last, if Dascom hadn't cheated me out of it."

"What did you say, Caleb?"

"O, I was just talking to myself," replied Caleb, rather bitterly. "It wasn't anything little boys should hear. I was only thinking how easy money comes to some folks, and how hard it comes to others. You see I worked a whole winter once, and never got a cent of pay; and I couldn't help feeling it when your pa put that ninety dollars away in his drawer."

"You didn't want my father's money—did you, Caleb Cushing?"

"No, child; only I knew if I'd had justice done me, I should have had ninety dollars myself. It was mine by good rights, and I hadn't ought to be cheated out of it."

Willy looked up astonished. What did Caleb mean by saying it was "his by good rights"?—his father's money. For he had not heard all Caleb's remarks, and what he had heard he had entirely misunderstood.

"Willy!" called his mother's voice from the sitting-room; but the little fellow, was too excited to hear.

"Do you mean my father's money, Caleb, that he keeps in his drawer?"

"Yes, yes, child; laid inside of a book," replied Caleb, carelessly.

"What! and you want it?—my father's money?"

"Yes, yes," laughed Caleb; "off to bed, child. Don't you hear your mother calling?"

Willy slipped down from the man's knee, and walked out of the room in deep thought. Why Caleb should want his father's money, and say he had a right to it, was more than he could understand; and he went to sleep with his little brain in a whirl.

Very soon tired and chilly teamsters began to pour into the bar-room, and rub their hands before the roaring fire. Caleb, who had quite forgotten his unlucky conversation with Master Willy, put fresh wood on the andirons, and brushed the hearth with a strip broom. Presently Mr. Parlin himself appeared in the doorway, bearing a huge pitcher of cider, which sparkled in a jolly way, as if it were glad to leave its hogshead prison in the dark cellar, and come up into such lively company.

"Well, neighbors, this is a cold evening," said Mr. Parlin, setting the pitcher down on the counter, and looking round with a hospitable smile. "Caleb, fetch out the loggerhead."

Caleb drew from the left ear of the fireplace a long iron bar, and thrust it into the hot coals. That was the loggerhead, and you will soon see what it was used for.

While it was still heating, Dr. Hilton took from one corner of the room a child's arm-chair, and set it down at a comfortable distance from the fireplace.

"We'll have it all ready for Bubby, when he makes us his visit," said he, laughing.

Some one always placed the chair there for Willy, and it was usually Dr. Hilton.

When the loggerhead was red hot, Caleb drew it out of the coals, and plunged it into the cold cider, which immediately began to bubble and hiss. Then he poured the sparkling liquid into mugs for the thirsty teamsters to drink; and while he was still holding the pitcher high in air, that the cider might come down with a good "bead," the door slowly opened, and in glided Willy, in his yellow flannel night-dress.

The men smiled and nodded at one another, but said nothing, as the child crossed the floor, seated himself in the little red chair, and began to rock. He rocked with such careless grace, and held his little feet before the blaze so naturally, that you would have thought he came into the room merely to warm his toes and to hear the men talk. You would never have supposed he was asleep unless you had looked at his eyes. They were wide open, it is true, but fixed, like a doll's eyes. If you had held a lighted candle before them, I suppose they would not have winked.

The Little Sleep-walker.—Page 31.

In fact, Willy was fast asleep and dreaming; and all the difference between him and other sleepers was, that he acted out his dreams.

"Queer what ails that child! Must be trouble on the brain, and he ought to be bled," said Dr. Hilton, with the wise roll of the eye he always gave when he talked of diseases.

Nobody answered, for the doctor had said the same thing fifty times before.

Still little Willy kept on rocking and dreaming, as unconscious as a yellow lily swinging on its stem.

Everybody had a story to tell, which everybody else laughed at, while the fire joined in the uproar right merrily. Still Willy slept on.

Presently a glare of light at the windows startled the company.

"Must be a fire somewhere!" said one of the men.

"Only the moon rising," said another.

"That's no place to look for the moon," said Mr. Parlin, seizing his hat and cloak.

"Fire! Fire!" shouted Mr. Riggs, running to the door in a panic.

"I'll warrant it's nothing but a chimney burning out," remarked Caleb, coolly; and when all the rest had gone to learn what it meant, he chose to stay behind.

There was nobody left in the bar-room now but himself and the sleeping Willy.

"Guess I'll take a look at the drawer, and see that the money is all right," said careful Caleb, stepping inside the bar, which had a long wooden grate, and looked somewhat like an enormous bird-cage, with the roof off. "Mr. Parlin is a very careless man," said Caleb, drawing a key from its hiding-place in an account-book; "he's dreadful free and easy about money. I don't know what he'd do without me to look out for him."

So saying, Caleb turned the key in the lock, and opened the drawer. There were rolls of bank bills lying in it, and handfuls of gold and silver.

"With so many coming and going in this house, it's a wonder Mr. Parlin ain't robbed every night of his life," said Caleb, reckoning over the bills very fast, for he was in the habit of counting money.

Was it all right? Was the ox money there? When the "man from the west'ard" paid it to Mr. Parlin, Caleb saw