Part 20 (1/2)

He did more than that. He shoved into Pen's hands enough money to pay for a few weeks' board at Lowbridge, and told him that if he needed more, to write and ask for it.

”It's comin' to ye,” he said, when Pen protested. ”Ye ain't had nothin' sence ye been here, and I kind o' calculate ye've earned it.”

Pen's mother went with him to the gate to wait for Henry Cobb to come along; and when they saw Mr. Cobb driving down the hill toward them, she kissed Pen good-by, adjured him to be watchful of his health, and to write frequently to her, and then went back up the path toward the house she could not see for the tears that filled her eyes.

Henry Cobb drove a smart horse, and a buggy that was spick and span, and it was a pleasure to ride with him. He pulled up at the gate with a flourish, and told Pen to put his suit-case under the seat, and to jump in.

It was not until after they had left the Corners some distance behind them that the object of Pen's journey was mentioned. Then Henry Cobb asked:

”How does the old gentleman like your leaving?”

”I don't think he likes it very well,” was the reply. ”But he's been lovely about it. He gave me some money and his blessing.”

”You don't say so!”

Henry Cobb stared at the boy in astonishment. It was not an unheard of thing for Grandpa Walker to give his blessing; but that he should give money besides, was, to say the least, unusual.

”Yes,” replied Pen, ”he couldn't have treated me better if I'd lived with him always.”

Mr. Cobb cast a contemplative eye on the landscape, and, for a full minute, he was silent. Then he turned again to Pen.

”I don't want to be curious or anything,” he said; ”but would you mind telling me how much money the old gentleman gave you?”

”Not at all,” was the prompt reply. ”He gave me eighteen dollars.”

”Good for him!” exclaimed the man. ”He's got more good stuff in him than I gave him credit for. I was afraid he might have given you only a dollar or two, and I was going to lend you a little to help you out.

I will yet if you need it. I will any time you need it.”

Henry Cobb was not prodigal with his money, but he was kind-hearted, and he had seen enough of Pen to feel that he was taking no risk.

”You're very kind,” replied the boy, ”but grandpa's money will last me a good while, and I shall get wages enough to keep me comfortably, and I shall not need any more.”

After a while Mr. Cobb's thoughts turned again to Grandpa Walker.

”He'll miss you terribly,” he said to Pen. ”He hasn't had so easy a time in all his life before as he's had this spring, with you to do all the farm ch.o.r.es and help around the house. It'll be like pulling teeth for him to get into harness again.”

Henry Cobb gave a little chuckle. He knew how fond Grandpa Walker was of comfortable ease.

”Well,” replied Pen, ”I'm sorry to go, and leave him with all the work to do; but you know how it is, Mr. Cobb.”

”Yes, I know; I know. And you're going with splendid people. I've known the Starbirds all my life. None better in the country.”

They had reached the summit of the elevation overlooking the valley that holds Chestnut Hill. Spring lay all about them in a riot of fresh green. The world, to boyish eyes, had never before looked so fair, nor had the present ever before been filled with brighter promises for the future. But the morning ride, delightful as it had been, was drawing to an end.

Coming from Cobb's Corners into Chestnut Hill you go down the Main street past Bannerhall. Pen looked as he went by, but he saw no one there. The lawn was rich with a carpet of fresh, young gra.s.s, the crocus beds and the tulip plot were ablaze with color, and the swelling buds that crowned the maples with a haze and halo of elusive pink foretold the luxury of summer foliage. But no human being was in sight. The street looked strange to Pen as they drove along; as strange as though he had been away two years instead of two months.

They stopped in front of the post-office, and he remained in the wagon and minded the horse while Henry Cobb went into a hardware store near by. People pa.s.sed back and forth, and some of them looked at him and said ”good-morning,” in a distant way, as though it were an effort for them to speak to him. He knew the cause of their indifference and he did not resent it, though it cut him deeply. Last winter it would have been different. But last winter he was the grandson of Colonel Richard Butler, and lived with that old patriot amid the memories and luxuries of Bannerhall. To-day he was the grandson of Enos Walker, of Cobb's Corners, leaving the farm to seek a petty job in a mill, discredited in the eyes of the community because of his disloyalty to his country's flag. He was musing on these things when some one called to him from the sidewalk. It was Aunt Millicent.

”Pen Butler!” she cried, ”get right down here and kiss me.”

Pen did her bidding.

”What in the world are you doing here?” she continued.