“Why, Phil!” cried the farmer, “what’s the matter? Your parents are well, and know that you are trying to be a better boy. Don’t cry. The time will soon pass; and a little farm learning will not hurt you. If you go on as you have done this two or three weeks past, you’ll come out all right, my boy.”
The next morning, after his work, Phil washed and dressed himself carefully, and went to church. His history, by this time, was pretty well known, and the good minister, who had become quite interested in him, had not only been to see him, but had always spoken to him kindly when he waited in the churchyard after the service, while the farmer and his wife talked awhile to their neighbors.
On this day, Phil went up to the good clergyman, and, blushing deeply, stammered out, “I should like to speak to you, sir.”
“Well, my dear boy,” he answered kindly, “don’t be afraid; tell me what I can do for you.”
“Oh, sir, if—if—you would only ask Mr. Goodfellow to let me go to evening school. I want to learn—I do indeed.”
“Well, that is quite right; but you were at an excellent school. Why did you not study there?”
Phil blushed more deeply than before, but he said, truthfully and manfully, “I neglected my opportunities, sir: I would not learn; and all the boys hated me—because I tormented them; and I did not want to do any thing harder than to walk about with my hands in my pockets—or else to be eating.”
“But, my child, did this kind of life make you happy?”
“No, sir. I grew tired of every thing, and gaped till I sometimes thought the top of my head would crack off; and I used to wish I could sleep all day as well as all night; but now, oh! how I wish I could go back and study diligently—although the farmer and his wife are very kind, and I could hardly bear to leave dear little Essie. And I want to see my parents, and beg them to forgive me”—and here Phil’s lip quivered painfully.
“Well, my son, I will speak to the farmer, and if he consents, you shall come to me for an hour every week-day evening and continue your studies.”