“Not now, mother!” she cheerily answered. “I was, I think, but after I picked up Jacob I felt sure we should get our hay in.”
“It was a good thing,” said the farmer; “Jacob don't need to be told how to work.”
Poor Jacob! He was so happy he could have cried. He sat and listened, and blushed a little, with a smile on his face which it was a pleasure to see. The honest people did not seem to regard him in the least as a stranger; they discussed their family interests and troubles and hopes before him, and in a little while it seemed as if he had known them always.
How faithfully he worked! How glad and tired he felt when night came, and the hay-mow was filled, and the great stacks grew beside the barn! But ah! the haying came to an end, and on the last evening, at supper, everybody was constrained and silent. Even Susan looked grave and thoughtful.
“Jacob,” said the farmer, finally, “I wish we could keep you until wheat harvest; but you know we are poor, and can't afford it. Perhaps you could—”
He hesitated; but Jacob, catching at the chance and obeying his own unselfish impulse, cried: “Oh, yes, I can; I'll be satisfied with my board, till the wheat's ripe.”
Susan looked at him quickly, with a bright, speaking face. “It's hardly fair to you,” said the farmer.
“But I like to be here so much!” Jacob cried. “I like—all of you!”
“We DO seem to suit,” said the farmer, “like as one family. And that reminds me, we've not heard your family name yet.”
“Flint.”