Phil got at his task at once, and in a few moments she heard him whistling an accompaniment to the steady thud, thud of the axe as he swung it with strong, resolute arms.
“He’s a fine boy,” was the Widow Cahill’s muttered conclusion.
Phil continued at his work without intermission until an hour had passed. Mrs. Cahill went out, begging that he come in and rest.
“Rest? Why, haven’t I been resting all night? I feel as if I could chop down the house and work it up into kindling wood, all before school time. What time is it?”
“Nigh on to seven o’clock. I’ve wanted to ask you something ever since you told me you had left Abner Adams. It’s rather a personal question.”
The lad nodded.
“Did your uncle send you away without any money?”
“Of course. Why should he have given me anything so long as I was going to leave him?”
“Did you ever hear him say that your mother had left a little money with him before she died—money that was to be used for your education as long as it lasted?”
Phil straightened up slowly, his axe falling to the ground, an expression of surprise appeared in his eyes.