“No, there is no pension––I––”
“Judge Thorne will get you one,” he said optimistically, as he rose, ready for action, “and how much is the mortgage?”
“Three hundred dollars,” she said despairingly.
“Almost as much as the place is worth. Who holds the mortgage?”
“Deacon Prickley.”
“You see,” said David, trying to speak casually, “I have three hundred dollars lying idle for which I have no use. I’ll ride to town now and have the Judge see that the place is clear to you, and he will get you a pension, twelve dollars a month.”
The worn, seamed face lifted to his was transfigured by its look of beatitude.
“You mustn’t,” she implored. “I didn’t 140 know about the pension. That will keep me, and I can find another little place somewhere. But the money you offer––no! I have heard how you have been saving to go through school.”
He smiled.
“Uncle Barnabas and the Judge are anxious to pay my expenses at college, and––you must let me. I would like to think, don’t you see, that you are living here in my old home. It will seem to me as if I were doing it for my mother––as I would want some boy to do for her if she were left––and it’s my country’s service he died in. I would rather buy this little place for you, and know that you are living here, than to buy anything else in the world.”