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carburetor.”
    A sigh came from her depths. “My tractor has seen its best days.”
    â€œNo horses?”
    â€œI had to trade the last one in the fall for feed to see the cows through the winter.”
    â€œBeen tough all over.”
    She murmured agreement. “I’m not complaining.”
    â€œMe, either.” He downed the rest of his tea, got to his feet and handed her the cup. “You give me the milk buckets and I’ll take care of the cows.”
    â€œNo need.”
    â€œI never accept a meal without doing a job.”
    â€œIt was my thanks.”
    He made no move toward leaving. “I ’spect the young ones need you.” He nodded toward the interior of the house.
    As she hesitated, torn between the truth of his statement and her reluctance to accept any more help from him, Dougie hurried out with the pails solving her need to make a choice.
    â€œI’ll help you, Hatcher.”
    The hobo patted Dougie on the head. “Good man.”
    Kate choked back a snort at the way her son preened and said, “Very well.” But they didn’t wait for her permission. She watched the man and boy saunter to the barn, smiling as Dougie tried to imitate Hatcher’s easy rolling gait then she hurried inside. There seemed no end of work to be done. She needed to make farmer’s cheese. The ironing had yet to be done and couldn’t be put off any longer. Mary needed a dress for tomorrow and it had to be ironed. And most importantly, she had to have a look at the tractor and see what it needed to get it running. “More than a prayer,” she mumbled.
    â€œMomma?”
    â€œNothing, Mary. Just talking to myself. Now help me with the dishes then run and shut in the chickens.”
    â€œMomma. I hate the chickens.”
    â€œI know you do but what would we eat if we didn’t have eggs and the occasional chicken?”
    â€œI don’t like eating chicken.”
    â€œI can never figure out why you object to eating an animal you’d just as soon see dead.”
    â€œI keep seeing the way they gobble up grasshoppers.” Mary shuddered.
    â€œBut you hate grasshoppers.”
    â€œI don’t want to eat anything that eats them.” Mary shuddered again.
    Kate shook her head. This child left her puzzled.
    Hatcher returned with the milk, his presence heralded by Dougie’s excited chatter.
    â€œYour milk, ma’am.”
    â€œThank you. Seems I’m saying that a lot.”
    â€œWon’t be any longer. I’ll be gone in the morning. My prayers for you and the family.”
    And he strode away.
    Kate stared after him a moment, wondering about the man. But not for long. She had milk to strain and separate. She had to try and persuade Mary to actually enter the chicken yard and shut the henhouse door and then she needed to supervise the children’s homework.
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    Next morning, as soon as the chores were done, Kate pulled on the overalls she wore for field work, dusted her hands together as if to say she was ready for whatever lay ahead, and pulled an old felt hat tightly over her head. It took her several minutes to adjust it satisfactorily. She recognized her fussing for what it was—delaying the inevitable. But the sooner she got at it, the sooner she’d conquer it. She gave her trousers a hitch, thought of the words from the Bible, She girdeth her loins with strength, and smiled.
    â€œHere I go in the strength of the Lord. With His help I can conquer this,” she murmured, and hurried out to the lean-to on the side of the barn where the beast waited to challenge her. Abby Oliver had parked it there last fall with dire warnings about its reliability.
    Kate confronted the rusty red machine, her feet fighting width apart, her hands on her hips and in her best mother-must-be-obeyed voice, the voice she reserved for Dougie’s naughtiest moments, said, “Could you not do the charitable thing and run? How