Part 11 (2/2)

Miss Janie sighed and shrugged her shoulders. It was arranged that Hopkins should deliver Nathaniel into my keeping some time the next day.

Hopkins, it appeared, was the only person on the farm who could make the donkey go.

”I don't know what it is,” said St. Leonard, ”but he has a way with him.”

”And now,” I said, ”there remains but d.i.c.k.”

”The lad I saw yesterday?” suggested St. Leonard. ”Good-looking young fellow.”

”He is a nice boy,” I said. ”I don't really think I know a nicer boy than d.i.c.k; and clever, when you come to understand him. There is only one fault I have to find with d.i.c.k: I don't seem able to get him to work.”

Miss Janie was smiling. I asked her why.

”I was thinking,” she answered, ”how close the resemblance appears to be between him and Nathaniel.”

It was true. I had not thought of it.

”The mistake,” said St. Leonard, ”is with ourselves. We a.s.sume every boy to have the soul of a professor, and every girl a genius for music. We pack off our sons to cram themselves with Greek and Latin, and put our daughters down to strum at the piano. Nine times out of ten it is sheer waste of time. They sent me to Cambridge, and said I was lazy. I was not lazy. I was not intended by nature for a Senior Wrangler. I did not see the good of being a Senior Wrangler. Who wants a world of Senior Wranglers? Then why start every young man trying? I wanted to be a farmer. If intelligent lads were taught farming as a business, farming would pay. In the name of commonsense-”

”I am inclined to agree with you,” I interrupted him. ”I would rather see d.i.c.k a good farmer than a third-rate barrister, anyhow. He thinks he could take an interest in farming. There are ten weeks before he need go back to Cambridge, sufficient time for the experiment. Will you take him as a pupil?”

St. Leonard grasped his head between his hands and held it firmly. ”If I consent,” he said, ”I must insist on being honest.”

I saw the woefulness again in Janie's eyes.

”I think,” I said, ”it is my turn to be honest. I have got the donkey for nothing; I insist on paying for d.i.c.k. They are waiting for you in the rick-yard. I will settle the terms with Miss Janie.”

He regarded us both suspiciously.

”I will promise to be honest,” laughed Miss Janie.

”If it's more than I'm worth,” he said, ”I'll send him home again. My theory is-”

He stumbled over a pig which, according to the time-table, ought not to have been there. They went off hurriedly together, the pig leading, both screaming.

Miss Janie said she would show me the short cut across the fields; we could talk as we went. We walked in silence for awhile.

”You must not think,” she said, ”I like being the one to do all the haggling. I feel a little sore about it very often. But somebody, of course, must do it; and as for father, poor dear-”

I looked at her. Her's is the beauty to which a touch of sadness adds a charm.

”How old are you?” I asked her.

”Twenty,” she answered, ”next birthday.”

”I judged you to be older,” I said.

”Most people do,” she answered.

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