The old man—to begin with the oldest first—was sitting in a rocking chair, with his hands folded in his lap, and an expression of placid contentment on his face. He had reached the age when rest is agreeable, and was satisfied to sit through the evening, now watching Harry or his mother, and now occupied with thoughts of earlier days and distant scenes. He was thoroughly satisfied with the new home he had found, plain and humble though it was. Indeed, perhaps, for that very reason, it suited him better.
Mrs. Gilbert was sewing. She had time enough to sew for some of her neighbors, and in that way earned a moderate sum for herself, though, as the family was now situated, she could have dispensed with it.
Harry was reading a “Life of Benjamin Franklin,” which he had taken from the Sunday school library, and was evidently deeply interested in it.
“What are you reading, Harry?” asked the old man, after a while.
“Franklin’s life, Uncle Obed.”
“You couldn’t read anything better. Old Ben is a good model for American boys. He was a great man.”
“So he was, Uncle Obed; and he began poor, too.”
“Sarten, sarten! Poor boys make the smartest men—that’s my observation.”
“Then I’ve got one thing in my favor,” said Harry, smiling.
“And you will succeed, too; I make no doubt of it. You’ve made a pretty good beginning already.”