“Why do you keep the stall then?” asked Jessica.
“Don’t you see what a many pennies I get every morning?” he said, shaking his canvas bag. “I get a good deal of money that way in a year.”
“What do you want such a deal of money for?” she inquired; “do you give it to God?”
Daniel did not answer, but the question went to his heart like a sword-thrust. What did he want so much money for? He thought of his bare and solitary room, where he lodged alone, a good way from the railway-bridge, with very few comforts in it, but containing a desk, strong, securely fastened, and in which were his savings’ bank book, his receipts for money put out at interest, and a bag of sovereigns, for which he had been toiling and slaving both on Sunday and week-days. He could not remember giving any thing away, except the dregs of the coffee and the stale buns for which Jessica was asking God to pay him. He coughed, and cleared his throat, and rubbed his eyes; and then, with nervous and hesitating fingers, he took a penny from his bag and slipped it into Jessica’s hand.
“No, no, Mr. Daniel,” she said; “I don’t want you to give me any of your pennies. I want God to pay you.”
“Ay, he’ll pay me,” muttered Daniel; “there’ll be a day of reckoning by and by.”
“Does God have reckoning days?” asked Jessica. “I used to like reckoning days when I was a fairy.”
“Ay, ay,” he answered, “but there’s few folks like God’s reckoning days.”
“But you’ll be glad; wont you?” she said.
Daniel bade her get on with her breakfast, and then he turned over in his mind the thoughts which her questions had awakened. Conscience told him he would not be glad to meet God’s reckoning day.