“When I get a farm I shall need somebody to keep the house.”—Page [143].
“This was just Endeavor meeting. But then that isn’t so at all.” Ben’s tone was emphatic. “Boys and girls can be Christians; mother explained that to me years ago. It’s just loving God best of all, and trying to do as He wants us to. Folks don’t have to wait till they are grown up to do that, or are awfully good, either. I’m glad they don’t, or there wouldn’t be much show for me; my temper boils over about as quick as Aunt Eunice’s teakettle. But I keep pegging away at it, and I can hold on better than I could, I know, for some of the folks I trade with are enough to provoke a saint. But that’s the only way to grow good—keep trying. You can do that as well as anybody. And you love God, don’t you?”
She shook her head as she answered mournfully, “I’m afraid not. I know I don’t feel about Him as you do.”
“I’m sorry,” Ben said simply. “I wish you did. You don’t know what a comfort it is when you get in a tight place and things seem to be mixed up all in a tangle, to feel that God will make everything come out just as is best for you. I really wish you did.”
Posey made no answer. She only reached up and caught a handful of leaves from a tree they were passing under, and asked Ben what kind of leaves they were. At the same time the fact that Ben Pancost, a boy who had a freckled face, who laughed and joked and told funny stories, who loved to skate, to coast, to play baseball, and in short enjoyed all the things that boys did, should talk about loving God, and God’s taking care of him, as though this was the most natural thing in the world, made a deep impression on her mind, and one that never was forgotten.
CHAPTER XI
A STORM, AND A SHELTER
Ben’s story, here given as a whole, had really been interrupted by one or two business calls. It was evident, even to Posey, that Ben was a decided favorite along the route; for in addition to his boyish good-humor, his obliging ways, as well as his truthfulness and honesty, had won for him many customers, and many friends among his customers. Posey could hardly have told if she more admired or was amused by the brisk, alert way in which he sorted over the bags of rags brought out to him, made his bargains, and marshalled his array of tinware.
“The fact of the matter is,” he explained to Posey as he was making a memorandum in his note-book of one quart, and one two-quart basin to be brought the next trip, “I’m pretty well sold out of stock, except milk pails, tin dippers, and nutmeg graters and the graters are a fancy kind at twenty-five cents. That’s a little too high for them to go easily. I guess I’ll tell Mr. Bruce—he’s the man I work for—that he’d better not order any more; things that run from ten to twenty cents sell the best. That’s about what a common bag of rags comes to, and folks would rather not pay money besides. I’d rather not pay money, either, for, you see, besides the profit on the rags I buy, there’s the profit on the goods I sell; so when I haven’t what they want, if they will wait I bring it next time I come, and I always take pains to pick out what I think will suit, too.”
As it drew towards noon Posey suggested that they share the rest of the contents of her basket. But Ben urged, “Wait a little.” And when a few moments later coming over a hill they entered a small country village he drew up before its modest hotel with a flourish, remarking as he did so, “This train stops twenty minutes for refreshments.”