Part 2

"You just watch him; that won’t trouble him much. Boys love sand. It was me that hired him, Martha. He come right up to me on the street an’ took off his hat like I was an earl: ’Can you give me any work to do, Mr. Borland?’ he says. ’I’m going to make enough money to make mother’s eyes well,’ an’ the little fellow looked so earnest an’ so manly, I fair hated to tell him the only kind of job I could give him. I just hated to. But I told him I wanted some one to pick potatoes. An’ Harvey brightened right up. ’All right, Mr. Borland,’ he says, ’I’ll come. I’m awful fond of potatoes, an’ I can pick two at a time—three, if they’re not too big,’ he says, an’ I couldn’t keep from laughin’ to save myself."

"What’s the matter with his mother’s eyes?" asked Mrs. Borland, as she tore the front page from the weekly paper, preparing to wrap it about the cake.

"I didn’t like to ask him. The little fellow seemed to feel real bad about it—an’ I never did like to probe into things that hurt," replied her husband. "Even when I was a boy at school, I never could stand seein’ a fellow show where he stubbed his toe," continued the homely philosopher, reaching out his hand for the little parcel. "There was one thing about the boy that took me wonderful," he went on; "I asked him would he work by the day or by the bushel, an’ he said right quick as how he’d do it by the bushel—I always like those fellows best that prefers to work by the job. Hello, there, old sport," he suddenly digressed as a noise from behind attracted him, "an’ where did you come from? You’re always turnin’ up at cake time. I thought you were goin’ to ride to Branchton," glancing as he spoke at the riding whip the girl held in her hand.

Full of merry laughter were the eyes, so like his own, that sparkled upward towards her father’s face. The wild sweet breath of happy girlhood came panting from her lips, half breathless with eager haste; while the golden hair, contrasting well with the rosy tide that suffused her cheek, and falling dishevelled on her shoulders, and the very aroma of health and vitality that distilled from her whole form, tall and lithe and graceful as it was, might amply justify the pride that marked her father’s gaze.

"So I was," the chiming voice rejoined. "But I turned back. I despise a coward." The eyes flashed as she spoke. "And Cecil Craig’s one—he’s a real one," she elaborated warmly. "We met a threshing engine half-way out—and of course I was going to ride past it. But he wouldn’t—he got off and tied his horse to a tree. And it broke the lines and got away. I was so glad—and I rode on, and Doctor threw me," rubbing her knee sympathetically as she spoke; "that’s what made me so glad his own horse got away," she affirmed savagely, "and the two engine men stopped and caught Doctor for me and I got on him again—astride this time—and I made him walk right up and smell the engine; and Cecil had to walk home. The men told him to touch himself up with his whip and it wouldn’t take him long—and that made him awful mad. You see, they knew he was a coward. Who’s that fruit-cake for?" she inquired suddenly, flinging her gloves vigorously towards the hat-stand. "I’ll just try a piece myself—fruit-cake’s good for a sore knee," and she attacked it with the dexterity that marks the opening teens.

"It’s for a little boy that’s workin’ in the field—little Harvey Simmons. He’s pickin’ potatoes, an’ I thought a little refreshment wouldn’t hurt him," her father answered, pointing fieldward as he spoke.

"I know him," the maiden mumbled, her mouth full of the chosen remedy; "he goes to school—and he always spells everybody down," she added as enthusiastically as the aforesaid treatment would permit. "Let me take it out to him, father," the utterance clearing somewhat.

The father was already handing her the dainty parcel when her mother intervened. "No, Madeline, it’s not necessary for you to take it. It’s hardly the correct thing, child; I’ll call Julia—she can take it out."

"’Tisn’t necessary, mother," quoted her husband. "I want this here cake to mean something. I’ll just take it myself," and in a moment he was striding energetically across the intervening paddock, the untiring form of the little labourer alternately rising and falling as he plied his laborious toil.

"Your father is the best-hearted man in the county, Madeline," Mrs. Borland ventured when her husband was out of hearing.

"He’s the best man in the world," the girl amended fervently; "and Cecil says his father’s a member of the Church and mine isn’t," she went on more vehemently; "he said father didn’t believe the right things—and I just told him they weren’t the right things if my father didn’t believe them, and I wouldn’t believe them either," the youthful heretic affirmed. "Lally Kerr told me Cecil’s father made some poor people give him money for rent that they needed for a stove—I didn’t want to tell Cecil that, but when he said his father believed all the right things I told him my father did all the good things, and he was kind to the poor—and I told him he was kind to them because he was poor once himself and used to work so hard with his hands, and——"

"Why, child," and the mother frowned a little, "where did you get that idea? Who told you that?"

"Father told me," replied the child promptly. "He told me himself, and I think I heard him telling Cecil’s father that once too—Cecil’s father wanted not to give so much money to the men that worked for him. I think they were talking about that, and that was when father said it," the unconscious face looking proudly up into her mother’s.

"You don’t need to speak about it, dear; it doesn’t sound well to be—to be boasting about your father, you know. Now run away and get ready for lunch; father ’ll be back in a minute."

The child turned to go upstairs, singing as she went, forgetful of the mild debate and blissfully ignorant of all the human tumult that lay behind it, conscious only of a vague happiness at thought of the great heart whose cause she had championed in her childish way. Less of contented joy was on the mother’s face as she looked with half exultant eyes upon the luxury about her, trophies of the wealth that had been so welcome though so late.

Prompted by the conversation with Madeline, her mind roamed swiftly over the bygone years; the privations of her early married life, the growing comfort that her husband’s toil had brought, the trembling venture into the world of manufacture, the ensuing struggle, the impending failure, the turning tide, the abundant flow that followed—and all the fairy-land into which increasing wealth had borne her. Of all this she thought as she stood amid the spoils—and of the altered ways and loftier friends, of the whirl and charm of fashion, of the bewildering entrance into such circles of society as their little town afforded, long envied from afar, now pouring their wine and oil into still unhealing wounds. Dimly, too, it was borne in upon her that her husband’s heart, lagging behind her own, had been content to tarry among the simple realities of old, unspoiled by the tardy success that had brought with it no sense of shame for the humble days of yore, and had left unaltered the simplicity of an honest, kindly heart.

Her husband, in the meantime, had arrived at the side of his youthful employee, his pace quickening as he came nearer to the lad, the corners of his mouth relaxing in a sort of unconscious smile that bespoke the pleasure the errand gave him. Absorbed in his work, and hearing only the rattle of the potatoes as they fell steadily into the pail beside him, the boy had not caught the approaching footfalls; he gave a little jump as Mr. Borland called him by his name.

"Here’s a little something for you, my boy—the missus sent it out."

Harvey straightened himself up, clapped his hands together to shake the dust from them, and gravely thanked his employer as he received the little package. Slowly unwrapping it, his eye brightened as it fell on a sight so unfamiliar; in an instant one of the slices was at his lips, a gaping wound in evidence as it was withdrawn. A moment later the boy ceased chewing, then slowly resumed the operation; but now the paper was refolded over the remaining cake, and Harvey gently stowed it away in the pocket of his blouse.

"What’s the matter?" inquired Mr. Borland anxiously. "Aren’t you well—or isn’t it good?" The boy smiled his answer; other reply was unnecessary and inadequate.

"Goin’ to take it home?" the man asked curiously.

"No, sir. I’m just going to keep it a little while," the youngster replied, looking manfully upward as he spoke, a little gulp bespeaking the final doom of the morsel he had taken. "You don’t mind, sir?" he added respectfully.

"Me mind! What would I mind for? You’re quite right, my boy—it’s a mighty good thing when a fellow finds out as young as you are that he can’t eat his cake and have it too; it takes most of us a lifetime to learn that. How old are you, Harvey—isn’t that your name?"

"Yes, sir. I’m most fourteen," the boy answered, stooping again to resume his work.

"Do you go to school?" the man inquired presently.

"Mostly in the winter, sir; not very much in the summer. But I do all I can. You see, I have to help my mother in the store when she needs me. But I’m going to try the entrance next summer," he added quickly, the light of ambition on his face.

"Where is your mother’s store?" asked Mr. Borland.

"It’s that little store on George Street, next to the Chinese laundry. It has a red door—and there’s a candy monkey in the window," he hastened to add, this last identification proffered with much enthusiasm.

A considerable silence followed, broken only by the rattling potatoes as they fell. "Mr. Borland, could you give me work in your factory?" the boy inquired suddenly, not pausing for an instant in his work.

"In the factory!" echoed Mr. Borland. "I thought you were going to school."

"I could work after four," replied the boy. "There’s two hours left."

Mr. Borland gazed thoughtfully for a moment. "’Twouldn’t leave you much time to play," he said, smiling down at Harvey.

"I don’t need an awful lot of play," the boy returned gravely; "I never got very much used to it. Besides, I’ve got a lot of games when I’m delivering little parcels for mother—games that I made up myself. Sometimes I play I’m going round calling soldiers out because there’s going to be a war—and sometimes I play I’m Death," he added solemnly.

"Play you’re Death!" cried the startled man. "What on earth do you mean by that? I thought no one ever played that game but once," he concluded, as much to himself as to the boy.

"Oh, it’s this way, you see—it’s one of the headlines in the copy-book that pale Death knocks with—with—impartial steps at the big houses and the little cottages—something like that, anyhow. And it’s a good deal the same with me," the boy responded gravely, looking up a moment as he spoke. "It’s a real interesting game when you understand it. Of course I’m not very pale," he continued slowly, "but I can feel pretty pale when I want to," he concluded, smiling at the fancy.

Mr. Borland was decidedly interested. And well he might have been. For there was just enough of the same mystic fire in his own heart, untutored though it was, to reveal to him the beauty that glowed upon the boyish face before him. The lad was tall for his years, well-formed, lithe, muscular; dishevelled by his stooping toil, a wealth of nut-brown hair fell over an ample forehead, almost overshading the large blue eyes that were filled with the peculiar shining light which portrays the poetic mind. His features were large, not marked by any particular refinement, significant rather of the necessity—yet also of the capacity—for moral struggle; distended nostrils, marking fullness of life and passion, sensitive to the varying emotions that showed first in the wonderful eyes; a deep furrow ran from nose to lips, the latter large and full of rich red blood, but finely formed, curving away to delicate expression at either side, significant of a nature keenly alive to all that life might have to give—such lips as eloquence requires, yet fitted well together, expressive of an inner spirit capable of the firmness it might sorely need.

"Could you drive a horse, lad?" the man suddenly inquired, after a long survey of the unconscious youth.

Harvey hesitated. "I think I could, sir, if the horse was willing. Sometimes we play horse at school, and I get along pretty well."

Mr. Borland looked keenly, but in vain, for any trace of merriment on the half-hidden face. "I drove the butcher boy’s horse once or twice, too. And I managed all right, except when it backed up—I hate to drive them when they’re backing up," the boy added seriously, with the air of an experienced horseman.

Mr. Borland laughed. "That’s jest where it comes in," he said; "any one can drive anything when it’s goin’ ahead—it’s when things is goin’ back that tries your mettle. I’ll see what I can do. Some of our horses drives frontwards—horses is pretty evenly divided between the kind that goes frontwards and them that won’t," he mused aloud as he walked away. "I’ve struck a heap of the last kind—they backed up pretty hard when I was your age," Harvey could just overhear as he plucked the dead vines from another mound and outthrew its lurking treasures.

*IV*

_*THE RICHES OF THE POOR*_

The retreating figure had no sooner gained the house in the distance than Harvey began to cast glances, eager and expectant, towards the road that skirted the outer edge of the field in which he was working. Once or twice he straightened up, wincing a little with the ache that long stooping brings, and peered intently towards the top of a distant hill beyond which he could not see. Suddenly his eye brightened, and a muffled exclamation of pleasure broke from his lips, for the vision he longed for had appeared. Yet it was commonplace enough—only a coloured sunbonnet, some four or five feet from the ground, and swaying a little uncertainly in the noontide light. But it was moving nearer, ever nearer, to the waiting boy, who knew the love that lent strength to the little feet and girded the tiny hands which bore something for himself.

The girlish form was now well beyond the curving hill, trudging bravely on; and Harvey saw, or thought he saw, the happy smile upon the eager face, the pace quickening as she caught sight of her brother in the distance. Harvey’s eyes filled with tenderness as he gazed upon the approaching child; for the poor, if they love and are loved again, know more of life’s real wealth than the deluded rich.

A few minutes more and she was at the bars, panting but radiant. Harvey ran to lay them down, taking the bundles from her hands. "Oh, but my arms ache so," the girl said, as she sank upon the grass; "it must be lovely to have a horse."

"Some day we will," her brother returned abruptly. "You just wait and see—and then you won’t ever walk anywhere. But you oughtn’t to carry these all this way, Jessie; I could bring it in my pocket just as well."

The girl’s face clouded a little. "But then it gets so cold, Harvey—and what’s in there ought to be nice and warm," she said hopefully, nodding towards the pail. "Mother heated the can just when we put it in, and I came as fast as ever I could, so it wouldn’t cool—and I held it in the hot sun all the time," she concluded triumphantly, proud of her ingenuity.

"That’s lovely, Jessie," replied the boy; "and you’re quite right," he went on, noticing the flitting sign of disappointment. "I just hate cold things—and I just love them hot," he affirmed as he removed the lid.

Jessie bended eagerly over it and the faint steam that arose was as beautiful to her eyes as was ever ascending incense to priestly ministrant.

"It’s hot, Harvey! I thought it would be," she cried. "Mother was so anxious for you to have a nice dinner—I knew that was what you liked," as an exclamation of delight came from the boy. "Mother said she never saw such a boy for meat-pies as you. And there’s something further down, that you like too—they’re under a saucer, and they have butter and sugar both, on them. No, you’d never guess what it is—oh, that’s not fair," she cried, "you’re smelling; any one can guess what it is if they smell," laughing merrily as she tried to withdraw the pail beyond the range of his olfactory powers.

"It’s pancakes!" pronounced her brother, sniffing still.

"Yes, of course—but you never would have guessed. Mother made them the very last thing before I started. And I cried when she was putting them in—oh, Harvey, it was so sad," the girl burst out with trembling voice, her hands going to her face as she spoke. "And mother cried too," she added, looking out at her brother through swimming eyes.

Harvey halted in his attack. "What for? What were you crying about?" he asked earnestly, the food still untasted.

"It was about mother’s eyes. You see, she put the pancakes on the table beside the stove—and there was a pile of table mats beside them. Well, when mother went to put them into the pail, she took up the mats instead—never knew the difference till she felt them. And I could see how sad it made her—she said she was afraid she soon wouldn’t see at all; and I just couldn’t keep from crying. Oh, Harvey," the shaking voice went eagerly on, "don’t you think we’ll soon be able to send her to the city to see the doctor there?—everybody says he could cure the right eye anyhow; mother thinks the left one’s gone. Don’t you think we will, Harvey?"

Harvey looked into space, a large slice of the tempting pie still in his hand. "I’m hoping so," he said—"I made almost thirty cents this morning; I counted it up just before you came—and there’s the two dollars I made picking raspberries that mother doesn’t know about—it’s in that knot-hole in the closet upstairs, you know. And maybe Mr. Borland’s going to give me more work—I asked him, and then——"

"I told mother I was going to sell Muffy," his sister broke in impulsively. "But she said I mustn’t; I guess she’s awful fond of Muffy, she cried so hard."

"I’d hate to sell Muffy," the boy responded judicially; "she’s the only one that always lays big eggs. And then, besides, they might kill her and eat her up—rich people nearly always do their hens that way." Two pairs of eyes darkened at thought of a tragedy so dread.

"We wouldn’t, even if we was rich, would we, Harvey?" the girl resumed earnestly.

"No, not with Muffy," Harvey assured her. "They’re awful rich over there," he volunteered, pointing to the large stone house in the distance.

"It must be lovely," mused the girl. "We could have such lots of lovely things. Why don’t you eat your dinner, Harvey?—it’ll get so cold."

"I don’t want it much," replied her brother. "You see, I had a pretty good breakfast," he explained cheerfully.

The loving eyes, still moist, gazed into his own. She was so young, some years younger than he, and as inexperienced almost as a child could be; yet the stern tuition of poverty and sorrow had given something of vision to the eyes that looked so wistfully out upon the plaintive face before her. She noted his shabby dress, the patches on his knees, the boots that stood so sorely in need of impossible repairs, the grimy stains of toil from head to foot, the furrowed channels that the flowing perspiration had left upon his face. And a great and mysterious pity seemed to possess her. She felt, dimly enough, yet with the sad reality of truth, that her brother had hardly had a chance in life’s unequal struggle. His tenderness, his unselfishness, his courage, all these she recognized, though she could not have called them by their names. She knew how ardently he longed to do so much that chill penury forbade; and as she glanced at the dust-covered pile in the distance that his toil had gathered, then back at the tired figure on the grass, all stained and spotted, the food he so much needed untasted in his sorrow, she felt more and more that there was only one hero in the world, however baffled and unrecognized he might be.

"Mother’ll be so disappointed," the girl pleaded, "if you don’t eat it, Harvey; she tried so hard to make it nice. Besides, I’ll just have to carry it back," she suddenly urged, a note of triumphant expectation in her voice; "and it was real heavy, too," well pleased with the culminating argument.

The boy hesitated, then slowly raised the tempting morsel to his lips. "I didn’t have such an awful lot of breakfast," he conceded; "I really am pretty hungry—and it was so good of you to fetch it to me, sister," his gaze resting affectionately on her.

A long silence ensued, Jessie watching delightedly as the little repast was disposed of, entertaining her brother the while with a constant stream of talk, all fed from the fountain-head of their own little circle, their own humble and struggling life. But however far afield her speech, with her thought, might wander, it kept constantly returning to the one central figure of their lonely lives, to her from whom their own lives had sprung; and the most unobservant listener would soon have known that the unselfish tenderness, the loving courage, of the mother-heart that had warmed and sheltered their defenseless lives, was reaping now its great and rich reward.

Jessie had reverted again to the dark shadow that overhung them both, their mother’s failing eyesight; and two earnest little faces looked very soberly one into the other, as though they must together beat back the enemy from the gate.

Suddenly Harvey broke the silence. "I’m pretty sure she’s going to get well," he said earnestly, holding the bottle in one hand and the glass stopper in the other. "I had a dream last night that—that comforted me a lot," he went on, slightly embarrassed by the fanciful nature of his argument; he could see that Jessie had hoped for something better. "I dreamed I was walking some place on a country road. And it was all dark—for mother, at least—it was awful dark, and I was leading her by the hand. I thought there was something troubling her that you didn’t know about—nor me—nobody, only mother. Well, just when we were groping round in the dark, a great big black cloud broke up into little bits, and the sun came out beautiful—just like—like it is now," he described, glancing towards the orb above them. "Of course, that was only in my dream—but we went straight on after that and mother could see to walk just as well as me," he concluded, smiling as hopefully as if dreams were the only realities of life.

Jessie, holding her sunbonnet by both strings and swinging it gently to and fro, had a curious look of interest, not unmixed with doubt, upon her childish face. "That was real nice, Harvey," she said slowly at length, "but I don’t just understand. You see, people always dream their dreams at night—and the sun couldn’t come out at night; anyhow it never does."

Harvey gazed indulgently. "It can do anything when you’re dreaming," he said quickly, a far-off look in his thoughtful eyes. "That’s when all the wonderful things happen," he went on, still looking absently across the fields. "Poor folks have just as good a time as rich folks, when they’re asleep," he concluded, his voice scarcely audible.

"But they know the difference when they wake up," retorted his sister, plucking a clover leaf eagerly. "Only three leaves!" she exclaimed contemptuously, tossing it aside. "Yes, it’s very different when they wake up—and everybody’s awake more than they’re asleep," she affirmed, as confident in her philosophy as he in his.