“You’re both good boys,” said Mr. Beasley. “But it seems like you’re too shy and quiet ever to make much of a lawyer, Irving—or a teacher,” he added, in candid criticism.
Irving blushed. “Maybe I’ll get over that in time, Mr. Beasley.”
“You had better,” observed the storekeeper. “It’s of no manner of use to anybody—not a particle. Lawrence, now, is different.”
Yes, Lawrence was different; the fact impressed itself that evening on Irving when his brother came home from the haying field with his uncle. Lawrence was big and ruddy and laughing; Irving was slight and delicate and grave. The two boys went together to their room to make themselves ready for supper.
“We finished the north meadow to-day,” said Lawrence,—“the whole of it. So don’t blame me if I go to sleep over French verbs this evening.”
“I’ll tell you something that will wake you up,” Irving replied. “I’m going to teach at St. Timothy’s School—in New Hampshire. So your going to college is sure, and we’ll be only a couple of hours apart.”
“Oh, Irv!” In Lawrence’s exclamation there was more expressiveness, more joy, than in all his brother’s carefully restrained statement. “Oh, Irv! Isn’t it splendid! I think you’re the finest thing—!” Lawrence grasped Irving’s hand and at the same time began thumping him on the back. Then he opened the door and shouted down the stairs.
“Uncle Bob! Aunt Ann! Irv has some great news to-night.”
Mrs. Upton put her head out into the hall; she was setting the table and held a plate of bread.