Roger opened his eyes wide.
"Why, sir, he told me, if I went to my father, he would never have anything to say to me again! And I thought he meant it too. But I've done very well without his help."
"Ah, well! He'll be glad to know that," said Mr. Aylmer drily. "Now I must waste no more time, but when school is over, I must have a talk with you. Do you know anything of arithmetic? I'll set you to work at once."
"And to think you're one of the Vicarage young gentlemen!"' said Roger. "Master George, I'm sure; Master Fred was not so tall."
"Master George it is. Here's a slate and here's a book. Look over the book, and I'll come presently and see how much you know."
"I could tell him that now," thought Roger. "'Nothing' is easy said. I'll just begin at the beginning and learn it right off."
Mr. Aylmer soon found that he had a good pupil in Roger Read—good in a way. Roger spared no pains to learn what he wanted to know; but anything of which he did not see the practical use, he would not learn at all.
History! Of what use would history be to him? Mr. Aylmer said nothing for a long time: all that winter Roger worked away at arithmetic, book-keeping, writing, and his Bible. Before summer came, he could write a fair business hand, was a tolerable accountant, and could write without errors in spelling. His business was thriving, his time was fully occupied, and he was very happy.
No one would ever take Jack Sparling's place in his affections; but he was beginning to regard Mr. Aylmer as a friend, and to love him; and something to love was a great blessing to poor lonely Roger—greater than he knew it to be.
May was a week old, and one Saturday afternoon, Roger was putting up his shutters when some one touched him on the shoulder.