Now when he spoke of the man who had been both friend and playfellow, it was almost reverently that he gave Him the title of Master.
It was with a heavy heart that Joel watched them go away. He, too, longed to follow; but he knew that unless he took the place at the bench, Phineas could not be free to go.
Gratitude held him to his post. No, not gratitude alone; he was learning the Master's own spirit of loving self-sacrifice. As he dropped the plumb-line over his work, he measured himself by that perfect life, and tried to straighten himself to its unbending standard.
He had his reward in the look of pleasure that he saw on the carpenter's face when Phineas came in, unexpectedly, one day, dusty and travel-stained.
"How much you have accomplished!" he said in surprise. "You have filled my place like a grown man."
Joel stretched his strong arms with a slight laugh. "It is a pleasure to work now," he said. "It seems so queer never to have a pain, or that worn-out feeling of weakness that used to be always with me. At first I was often afraid it was all a happy dream, and could not last. I am getting used to it now. Where is the Master?" Joel asked, as Phineas turned towards the house.
"He is the guest of Simon. He will be here some days, my son. I know you wish to be with Him as much as possible, so I shall not expect your help as long as He stays."
"If I could only do something for Him!" was Joel's constant thought during the next few days. Once he took a coin from the little money bag that held his hoarded savings—a coin that was to have helped buy his revenge—and bought the ripest, juiciest pear he could find in the market. Often he brought Him water, fresh and cold from the well when He looked tired and warm from His unceasing work.
Wherever the Master turned, there, close beside Him, was a beaming little face, so full of love and childish sympathy that it must have brought more refreshment to His thirsty soul than either the choice fruit or the cooling water.