Presently he comes down again, still a-laughin', an' kerryin' that platter in his hand.

He sets it down afore Simon, an' says he, 'Wealthy,' says he (that was my mother), 'Wealthy,' says he, 'let Simon have his victuals off o' this platter every day, d'ye hear?
The' ain't none other that's good enough for him!' an' then he laughed again, till he fairly shook, an' Simon looked black as thunder, an' took his hat an' went out.

An' so after Simon went to college, every time he come home for vacation and set down to table with his nose kind o' turned up, like he was too good to set with his own kith and kin, father 'ud go an git the old blue platter and set it afore him, an' say, 'Here's _your_ dish, Simon; been diggin' any lately, my son ?' and then lay back in his cheer and laugh." "And did Simon become--a--a gentleman ?" asked Hilda, taking her own little lesson very meekly, in her desire to know more.
Farmer Hartley's brow clouded instantly, and the smile vanished from his lips.

"Poor Simon!" he said, sadly.

"He might ha' been anythin' he liked, if he'd lived and--been fortunate." "Simon Hartley is dead, Hilda dear," interposed Dame Hartley, gently; "he died some years ago.