He now edged up to Nicholas, who was busy dragging his beloved new sled to his work-shed behind the house.

"You haven't forgotten, Nicholas, that you move to my house today," Marsden said gruffly.

Nicholas looked up. No, he had not forgotten, and he well knew why Marsden had offered to take him in for the last year of his life as a wandering orphan. The old wood-carver had no children for Nicholas to take care of, he did no farming or fishing, and therefore did not need a boy to help him out in that direction. The only reason he was willing, even eager, to feed and clothe the orphan was because for almost five years now he had watched the work Nicholas had been doing with his knife and carved woods, and realized that he could get a good apprentice cheap, without paying even a cent for the good work he knew he could get out of him.

Knowing all these things, and thinking of the bleak little cottage he would have to live in for a year, where there was no laughter and sound of children's voices, it was with a heavy heart that Nicholas piled up his few belongings in the new sled, said a grateful farewell to the family he was leaving, and followed Mad Marsden home to the low, mean-looking cottage on the outskirts of the village.

On entering the cottage, he stepped immediately into the main workroom of the wood-carver. Here were found his bench, his table, his tools, and his woods. A broad fireplace almost filled another side of the room, and black pots and greasy kettles showed plainly that no scouring housewife had set foot in the cottage for years. A pile of tumbled blankets in one corner was evidently Marsden's bed, and near the window was a table, littered with the remains of his morning meal. These and a few rickety chairs completed the furnishings of this one dark room.

Marsden led the way in and pointed to a door in the corner.

"You can stow your belongings in there," he said over his shoulder to Nicholas, who was standing in the middle of the untidy room, looking around him in dismay. "There's a cot you can sleep on, and you may as well put that pretty sled away for good. We have no time here to go romping in the snow."

Nicholas nodded silently, too puzzled at the old man's living quarters to be hurt by the harsh words. He could not understand why Marsden should live so meanly, because, as the only wood-carver in the village, he was kept busy all the time filling orders for his hand-carved tables, chairs, cabinets, bridal chests, sleighs, and several other useful household articles that the villagers were in constant need of. The poorer people paid him in flour, vegetables, fish—whatever they could send him; the more well-to-do gave him good gold coin for his work. Not only that, but it was a well-known fact that he did work for the people in two or three neighboring villages, where there was no other wood-carver. In spite of the fact, then, that he probably had more money than any of the poor fishermen in the village, his cottage was meaner and shabbier than any of the well-scrubbed houses in which Nicholas had spent the past nine years.

"Come now, Nicholas, don't stand there gawking. Put away your belongings; you have much to learn here. I'm going to make a good wood-carver of you. No time for silly little dolls and wooden horses; you'll have to earn your keep here. And mind you, I won't have this place filled with screaming little brats. You keep that tribe of young ones that's always following you about out of here, do you understand?"

His eyes gleamed fiercely beneath the shaggy brows. Nicholas stammered in a frightened voice, "Yes—yes, master. But," he pleaded, suddenly struck by the thought that he might not see any of his little friends any more, "but they don't do any harm, the children—they only like to watch me work, and I wouldn't let them get in your way or touch anything . . ."

"Silence!" roared the old man, shaking his fists in the air and glaring at the frightened boy. "I won't have 'em, do you understand? I want to be alone. I wouldn't have you here if the work didn't pile up so that I need a helper. But you'll have to work, and there'll be no time for Christmas visits to children and all that nonsense."

Nicholas bowed his head and went silently to work putting away his small bundle of clothing, his few books, his father's sea-chest and jack-knife. The year ahead of him stretched forth bleakly, and only the thought that he was now fourteen years old and almost a man kept him from crying himself to sleep that night in his dark, cold little room.

So Nicholas started to work for the mad old wood-carver, and learned many things. He learned that his father's old jack-knife was a clumsy tool compared with the beautiful sharp knives and wheels that Marsden used; he learned to work for hours, bent over the bench beside his master, patiently going over and over one stick of wood until it was planed to the exact hundredth of an inch that his teacher required; he learned to keep on working even though the back of his neck almost shrieked with pain, and the muscles of his arms and hands grew lame from so much steady labor. All this he grew used to in time, for he was a strong, sturdy lad, and young enough so that his muscles became accustomed to the hard work; but what he felt he never could get used to was the dreadful loneliness of the place. His friends, the children, gradually gave up trying to see him after they had been shooed away from the door by the cross old wood-carver; Marsden himself rarely talked, except to give brief instructions about the work, or to scold him for some mistake. So Nicholas was sad and lonely, and longed for the days when he had been in friendly cottages, surrounded by a laughing group of children.

In addition to his duties at the work-bench, he also attempted to straighten out the two miserable little rooms where they lived. Marsden was surprised one morning on awakening to discover that Nicholas, who had risen two hours earlier, had swept and scrubbed the floor and hearthstone, taken down the dirty hangings from the two little windows and had them airing in the yard, and was now busily scrubbing with clean sea-sand the dirt-incrusted pots and pans. The table was set in front of the fire with a clean white cloth and dishes, and the kettle was bubbling merrily on the hearth.

Marsden opened his mouth to speak, then closed it without saying a word. Nicholas took the kettle from the fire, poured the boiling water over the tea-leaves, spread some bread with fresh, sweet butter, and said simply, "Your breakfast, master."

Marsden ate wordlessly, looking at Nicholas from under his wild eyebrows. The boy went on with his work, which consisted now in bundling up the tumbled bed-clothing and throwing it over a line in the yard. Marsden finished his breakfast and finally spoke.

"You'll find some meal in that corner cupboard," he said. "We might have some porridge tomorrow morning." Nicholas nodded. "Now, stop all that woman's work and let's get on with that chest. I've promised it for next Wednesday, and even if that silly Enid Grondin is fool enough to get married, we must have our work out when it is promised."

But after that morning, Marsden was careful to shake out his bed-clothing after he arose, and to clean up the dishes after his breakfast. And the cottage gradually came to look more like a place where human beings could live.