a passion, had thrown the fact at me--that the wealthy Friend himself
had come to Norton Bury without a shilling in his pocket.

"Well, what work canst thee do, lad?"

"Anything," was the eager answer.

"Anything generally means nothing," sharply said my father; "what
hast thee been at all this year?--The truth, mind!"

John's eyes flashed, but a look from mine seemed to set him right
again. He said quietly and respectfully, "Let me think a minute, and
I'll tell you. All spring I was at a farmer's, riding the
plough-horses, hoeing turnips; then I went up the hills with some
sheep: in June I tried hay-making, and caught a fever--you needn't
start, sir, I've been well these six weeks, or I wouldn't have come
near your son--then--"

"That will do, lad--I'm satisfied."

"Thank you, sir."

"Thee need not say 'sir'--it is folly. I am Abel Fletcher." For my
father retained scrupulously the Friend's mode of speech, though he
was practically but a lax member of the Society, and had married out
of its pale. In this announcement of his plain name appeared, I
fancy, more pride than humility.

"Very well, I will remember," answered the boy fearlessly, though
with an amused twist of his mouth, speedily restrained. "And now,