Part 17 (1/2)

”I don't know, yet,” said the boy, ”but I'll think out a plan to-night.”

It was Jud, after all, who cut the Gordian knot, and made one of his welcome disappearances, which lasted until David was ready to start in college. His savings, that he had acc.u.mulated by field work in the summers and a very successful poultry business for six years, netted him four hundred dollars.

”One hundred dollars for each year,” he thought exultantly. ”That will be ample with the work I shall find to do.”

Then he made known to his friends his long-cherished scheme of working his way through college. The Judge laughed.

”Your four hundred dollars, David, will barely get you through the first year. After that, I shall gladly pay your expenses, for as soon as you are admitted to the bar you are to come into my office, of course.”

David demurred.

”I shall work my way through college,” he said firmly.

He next told Barnabas of his intention and the Judge's offer which he had declined.

”I'm glad you refused, Dave. You'll only be in his office till you're ripe fer what I kin make you. I've larnt that the law is a good foundation as a sure steppin' stone tew it, so you kin hev a taste of it. But the Jedge ain't a-goin' to pay yer expenses.”

”I don't mean that he shall,” replied David. ”I want to pay my own way.”

”I'm a-goin' to send you tew college and send you right. No starvin'

and garret plan fer you. I've let Joe and the Jedge do fer you as much as they're a-goin' to, but you're mine from now on. It's what I'd do fer my own son if he cared fer books, and you're as near to me ez ef you were my son.”

”It's too much, Uncle Barnabas.”

”And, David,” he continued, unheeding the interruption, ”I hope you'll really be my son some day.”

A look of such exquisite happiness came into the young eyes that Barnabas put out his hand silently. In the firm hand-clasp they both understood.

”I am not going to let you help me through college, though, Uncle Barnabas. It has always been my dream to earn my own education. When you pay for anything yourself, it seems so much more your own than when it's a gift.”

”Let him, Barnabas,” again counseled Uncle Larimy. ”Folks must feed diff'rent. Thar's the sweet-fed which must allers hev sugar, but salt's the savor for Dave. He's the kind that flourishes best in the shade.”

Janey wrote to Joe of David's plan, and there promptly came a check for one thousand dollars, which David as promptly returned.

CHAPTER II

A few days before the time set for his departure David set out on a round of farewell visits to the country folk. It was one of those cold, cheerless days that intervene between the first haze of autumn and the golden glow of October. He had never before realized how lonely the s.h.i.+ver of wind through the poplars could sound. Two innovations had been made that day in the country. The rural delivery carrier, in his little house on wheels, had made his first delivery, and a track for the new electric-car line was laid through the sheep meadow. This inroad of progress upon the sanct.i.ty of their seclusion seemed sacrilegious to David, who longed to have lived in the olden time of log houses, with their picturesque open fires and candle lights. Following some vague inward call, he went out of his way to ride past the tiny house he had once called home, and which in all his ramblings he had steadfastly avoided. He had heard that the place had pa.s.sed into the hands of a widow with an only son, and that they had purchased surrounding land for cultivation. He had been glad to hear this, and had liked to fancy the son caring for his mother as he himself would have cared for his mother had she lived.

As he neared the little nutsh.e.l.l of a house his heart beat fast at the sight of a woman pinning clothes to the line. Her fingers, stiff and swollen, moved slowly. The same instinct that had guided him down this road made him dismount and tie his horse. The old woman came slowly down the little path to meet him.

”I am David Dunne,” he said gently, ”and I used to live here. I wanted to come to see my old home once more.”

He thought that the dim eyes gazing into his were the saddest he had ever beheld.

”Yes,” she replied, with the slow, German accent, ”I know of you. Come in.”

He followed her into the little sitting room, which was as barren of furnis.h.i.+ngs as it had been in the olden days.