and to a listener whom he knew he could trust.

"Why--his salary, of course," answered Jack in astonishment, after a
pause.

"Anything else?"

"Yes--the farm."

"And who worked that?"

"My father's negroes--some of them his former slaves."

"And have you any money of your own--anything your father left you?"

"Only enough to pay taxes on some wild lands up in Cumberland County,
and which I'm going to hold on to for his sake."

Peter dropped his shading fingers, lifted his body from the depths of
the easy chair and leaned forward so that the light fell full on his
face. He had all the information he wanted now.

"And now let me tell you my story, my lad. It is a very short one. I
had the same sort of a home, but no father--none that I remember--and no
mother, they both died before my sister Felicia and I were grown up.
At twelve I left school; at fifteen I worked in a country store--up at
daylight and to bed at midnight, often. From twenty to twenty-five I
was entry clerk in a hardware store; then book-keeper; then cashier in
a wagon factory; then clerk in a village bank--then book-keeper again
in my present bank, and there I have been ever since. My only advantages
were a good constitution and the fact that I came of gentle people. Here
we are both alike--you at twenty--how old?--twenty two?... Well, make
it twenty-two.... You at twenty-two and I at twenty-two seem to have
started out in life with the same natural advantages, so far as years
and money go, but with this difference--Shall I tell you what it is?"

"Yes."

"That I worked and loved it, and love it still, and that you are lazy
and love your ease. Don't be offended--" Here Peter laid his hand on the
boy's knee. He waited an instant, and not getting any reply, kept on:
"What you want to do is to go to work. It wouldn't have been honorable
in you to let your father support you after you were old enough to
earn your own living, and it isn't honorable in you, with your present
opinions, to live on your uncle's bounty, and to be discontented
and rebellious at that, for that's about what it all amounts to. You
certainly couldn't pay for these comforts outside of this house on what
Breen & Co. can afford to pay you. Half of your mental unrest, my lad,
is due to the fact that you do not know the joy and comfort to be got
out of plain, common, unadulterated work."

"I'll do anything that is not menial."

"What do you mean by 'menial'?"

"Well, working