"Mamma was right, my son, as she always is; and I'm greatly pleased that you remember her instructions. There is Tom coming with a load, now, you may run and ask him to give you a handful of corn to call your donkey with. Perhaps he has seen the creature somewhere."
Bertie was off like a dart that has been shot from a bow; and his father could see him gesturing away as he walked back at Tom's side.
"Did you come all this way to ask for a few kernels of corn?" asked the man, staring at the child in wonder. "Why, you might have taken a pint, and neither I nor the oxen would ever have known it."
"But God sees everything we do," said the boy. "I knew 'twas yours, 'cause I saw you turn it out of a bag; and I couldn't touch it without your leave, you know."
"Well, now, I must say you're the honestest little shaver I ever did see," answered Tom, regarding the child almost with awe. "If it had been my boy, he'd snatched up the corn and run off with it, and never have thought another breath about it."
"Mamma teaches me how wicked it is to steal," Bertie went on. "Perhaps your boy," gazing anxiously in the man's face, "hasn't any mother to teach him."
Tom's mouth worked convulsively; and presently he wiped his eyes with his dirty shirt sleeve.
"No, he hasn't," he answered. "She's dead this six months."
They were now almost back to the cellar, and after a moment's silence, Tom added,—
"If the corn was mine, you'd be welcome to as much as you want of it; but it's in the agreement that the Squire shall give the oxen their feed at noon. So I bring along the corn from the store; and he pays the bill."