"Thank you, Caleb," said Philip, closing his eyes as if to exclude the prospect. "But tell me," he said a moment later, "why my uncle did so much for so little. Don't imagine that I underrate three or four thousand dollars a year, but—money is worth only what it really brings or does. That's the common-sense view of the matter, isn't it?"
"Yes; I can't see anythin' the matter with it."
"But uncle got nothing for his money but ordinary food, clothes, and shelter, and seems to have worked as hard as any overworked laborer."
"Well, I reckon he was doin' what the rest of us do in one way or other; he was countin' on what there might be in the future. He b'lieved in a good time comin'."
"Yes,—in heaven, perhaps, but not here."
"That's where you're mistaken, for he did expect it here—right here, in Claybanks."
Philip looked incredulous, and asked:—
"From what?"
"Well, he could remember when Chicago was as small as Claybanks is now, an' had a good deal more swamp land to the acre, too—an' now look at it! He'd seen St. Paul an' Minneapolis when both of 'em together could be hid in a town as big as Claybanks—but now look at 'em!"
"But St. Paul and Minneapolis had an immense water-fall and water-power to attract millers of many kinds."