you, Irving. The folks all like to have you wait on ’em; you’re so
polite and tidy. But I know clerking in a country store ain’t much of a
job for a college graduate, and I’m glad you’ve found something better.”

“I’m glad if I’ve been of any use to you,” replied Irving. “I know you
didn’t expect I would be when you took me in. And your giving me this
chance has meant that I could stay on here and tutor Lawrence this
summer and at the same time pay all my living expenses. It’s been more
of a help than you know—to Lawrence as well as to me.”

“You’re both good boys,” said Mr. Beasley. “But it seems like you’re too
shy and quiet ever to make much of a lawyer, Irving—or a teacher,” he
added, in candid criticism.

Irving blushed. “Maybe I’ll get over that in time, Mr. Beasley.”

“You had better,” observed the storekeeper. “It’s of no manner of use to
anybody—not a particle. Lawrence, now, is different.”

Yes, Lawrence was different; the fact impressed itself that evening on
Irving when his brother came home from the haying field with his uncle.
Lawrence was big and ruddy and laughing; Irving was slight and delicate
and grave. The two boys went together to their room to make themselves
ready for supper.

“We finished the north meadow to-day,” said Lawrence,—“the whole of it.
So don’t blame me if I go to sleep over French verbs this evening.”

“I’ll tell you something that will wake you up,” Irving replied. “I’m
going to teach at St. Timothy’s School—in New Hampshire. So your going