“When had you anything to eat?” he inquired.
“I shall do very well till to-morrow,” answered Clare.
“Then if you will go, I’m glad of the opportunity of paying you the wages I owed you,” said the farmer, putting his hand in his pocket.
“You gave me my food! That was all I was worth!” protested Clare.
“You were worth more than that! I knew the difference when I had another boy in your place! I wish I had you again!—But it wouldn’t do, you know! it wouldn’t do!” he added hastily.
With that he succeeded in pulling a sovereign from the depth of a trowser-pocket, and held it out to Clare. It was neither large wages nor a greatly generous gift, but it seemed to the boy wealth enormous. He could not help holding out his hand, but he was ashamed to open it. What the giver regarded as a debt, the receiver regarded as a gift. He stood with his hand out but clenched. There was a combat inside him.
“It’s too much!” he protested, looking at the sovereign almost with fear. “I never had so much money in my life!”
“You earned it well,” said the farmer magnanimously.
The moral cramp forsook his hand. He took the money with a hearty “Thank you, sir.” As he put it in his pocket, he felt its corners carefully, lest there should be a hole. But his pockets had not had half the wear of the clothes they inhabited.
“Where are you going?” asked the farmer.