hay field; and if there's any thing I abominate, it's work."

So saying, he took his leave. Just then there was a call for Mr,
Moreland, who also departed, leaving Billy alone.

"It is very strange that she never told me she knew him," thought he;
and then taking from his pocket a neatly folded letter, he again read
it through. But there was nothing in it about George, except the
simple words, "I am glad you have found a friend in Mr. Moreland. I am
sure I should like him, just because he is kind to you."

"Yes, she's forgotten him," said Billy, and that belief gave him
secret satisfaction. He had known Mary long and the interest he had
felt in her when a homely, neglected child, had not in the least
decreased as the lapse of time gradually ripened her into a fine,
intelligent-looking girl. He was to her a brother still, but she to
him was dearer far than a sister; and though in his letters he always
addressed her as such, in his heart he claimed her as something
nearer, and yet he had never breathed in her ear a word of love, or
hinted that it was for her sake he toiled both early and late,
hoarding up his earnings with almost a miser's care that she might be
educated.

Regularly each week she wrote to him, and it was the receipt of these
letters, and the thoughts of her that kept his heart so brave and
cheerful, as, alone and unappreciated, except by George, he worked on,
dreaming of a bright future, when the one great object of his life
should be realized.