"But I must explain—I will explain. You all must know. Now listen: the reason I'm not going back—the reason I had to study so——"
"Keep still, Will," said his father, in a grave tone; "you needn't go on. I know all about it."
Will's heart stood still.
"You know all about it, father?"
"Yes, the minister told us how hard you were working for the prize. And we read in the Chicago papers that another boy won it——"
"Oh, you don't understand; you don't know why I needed to win it. You don't know anything about it—anything about it."
"Yes, yes, I do, Will," said Mr. Young, fumbling in his pocket for something, "yes, I do."
Mrs. Young put in excitedly: "It was because you had to have the money to go back next year. That was the reason you worked yourself nearly into the grave and wrote such short, irregular letters home and——"
"Now, mother, keep still," interrupted Mr. Young, "I have something to say." He dropped his eyes as though ashamed. He had taken out of his pocket a slip of paper. There was some printing on it and some blank places filled in with writing. He cleared his throat in the way he was accustomed to do when he got up in prayer-meeting. "You had to have the money. It was a necessity. You worked hard for it, but you missed it. And I thought, seeing you missed the prize there at school, I would show my appreciation of your efforts there at school, that—now, Will, take this and stop looking at me in that way. You done your best. Now you won't have to change your plans. I hate to see people change their plans."
His father had put the slip of paper in his hand. Will looked at it. It was a check drawn on the Farmers' National Bank. It said, "Pay to the order of William Young Two Hundred Dollars ($200)." What did it all mean?