“He’s a bright lad, yon?” went on the farmer.
“Yes. What are you going to make of him?”
Dr. MacGregor knew the ways of Elmsdale folk. They required leading up to a subject by judicious questioning. Rarely would they unburden their minds by direct statements.
“That’s what’s worryin’ me,” said John slowly. “What d’ye think yersen, docthor?”
“It is hard to say. It all hinges on what you intend doing for him, Bolland. He is not your son. If he has to depend on his own resources when he’s a man, teach him a useful trade. No matter how able he may be, that will never come amiss.”
The farmer gazed around. As men counted in that locality, he was rich, not in hard cash, but in lands, stock, and tenements. His expenses did not grow proportionately with his earnings. He ate and dressed and economized now as on the day when Martha and he faced the world together, with the White House and its small meadows their only belongings. In a few years the produce of his shorthorn herd alone would bring in hundreds annually, and his Cleveland bays were noted throughout the county.
He took the doctor’s hint.
“I’ve nayther chick nor child but Martin,” he said. “When Martha an’ me are gone te t’ Lord, all that we hev’ll be Martin’s. That’s settled lang syne. I med me will four years agone last Easter.”
There was something behind this, and MacGregor probed again.
“Isn’t he cut out for a farmer?”