"Yes."
Again Abel Fletcher fell into a brown study. We two lads talked softly to each other—afraid to interrupt. He smoked through a whole pipe—his great and almost his only luxury, and then again called out—
"John Halifax."
"I'm here."
"It's time thee went away to thy work."
"I'm going this minute. Good-bye, Phineas. Good day, sir. Is there anything you want done?"
He stood before his master, cap in hand, with an honest manliness pleasant to see. Any master might have been proud of such a servant—any father of such a son. My poor father—no, he did not once look from John Halifax to me. He would not have owned for the world that half-smothered sigh, or murmured because Heaven had kept back from him—as, Heaven knows why, it often does from us all!—the one desire of the heart.
"John Halifax, thee hast been of great service to me this night. What reward shall I give thee?"
And instinctively his hand dived down into his pocket. John turned away.
"Thank you—I'd rather not. It is quite enough reward that I have been useful to my master, and that he acknowledges it."