“Oh, mother, James did first-rate, ma’am, first-rate.”
“Yes, child, I hear you.”
“He’s tickled to death. What do you suppose he did, mother? He didn’t know anybody saw him, but I was up on the haymow; he put both arms round Frank’s neck, and hugged him, and talked to him ever so long, and I expect he told Frank how glad he was that he had read and spelt, before the whole school, and got through the first day.”
“What reply did Frank make?” said his mother, laughing.
“He wickered. You may laugh, mother, but he knew well enough that James was glad, and that was his way to say he was glad too.”
“I suppose Frank heard you on the mow, and wickered for some hay.”
“James,” said Bertie, not heeding the interruption, “won’t talk with other folks, but he’s all the time talking to the horses when he thinks nobody hears him.”
The naturally proud and sensitive nature of James shrank from familiar contact with those who had been reared under such different conditions. He was haunted with the notion that, in their secret mind they looked upon him as inferior, and notwithstanding the kindness they manifested, did in thought revert to his former condition; but in regard to the animals this feeling had no place, he lavished upon them his caresses, and understood their expressions of gratitude. To them, he well knew, the redemptioner and “work’us” was master, benefactor, friend.
Thus passed away the first week of school, to the mutual satisfaction of all concerned.