“Ye’re going t’ heaven, I hear,” said Darrel, who had repaired a clock for him, and heard complaint of his small fee.

“I am,” was the spirited reply.

“God speed ye!” said the tinker, as he went away.

In such disfavour was the poor man, that all would have been glad to have him go anywhere, so he left Hillsborough.

One day in the Christmas holidays, a boy came to the door of Riley Brooke, with a buck-saw on his arm.

“I’m looking for work,” said the boy, “and I’d be glad of the chance to saw your wood.”

“How much a cord?” was the loud inquiry.

“Forty cents.”

“Too much,” said Brooke.  “How much a day?”

“Six shillings.”

“Too much,” said the old man, snappishly.  “I used to git six dollars a month, when I was your age, an’ rise at four o’clock in the mornin’ an’ work till bedtime.  You boys now-days are a lazy good-fer-nothin’ lot.  What’s yer name?”

“Sidney Trove.”

“Don’t want ye.”

“Well, mister,” said the boy, who was much in need of money, “I’ll saw your wood for anything you’ve a mind to give me.”

“I’ll give ye fifty cents a day,” said the old man.

Trove hesitated.  The sum was barely half what he could earn, but he had given his promise, and fell to.  Riley Brooke spent half the day watching and urging him to faster work.  More than once the boy was near quitting, but kept his good nature and a strong pace.  When, at last, Brooke went away, Trove heard a sly movement of the blinds, and knew that other eyes were on the watch.  He spent three days at the job—­laming, wearisome days, after so long an absence from heavy toil.

“Wal, I suppose y& want money,” Brooke snapped, as the boy came to the door.  “How much?”

“One dollar and a half.”

“Too much, too much; I won’t pay it.”

“That was the sum agreed upon.”

“Don’t care, ye hain’t earned no dollar ’n a half.  Here, take that an’ clear out;” having said which, Brooke tossed some money at the boy and slammed the door in his face.  Trove counted the money—­it was a dollar and a quarter.  He was sorely tempted to open the door and fling it back at him, but wisely kept his patience and walked away.  It was the day before Christmas.  Trove had planned to walk home that evening, but a storm had come, drifting the snow deep, and he had to forego the visit.  After supper he went to the Sign of the Dial.  The tinker was at home in his odd little shop and gave him a hearty welcome.  Trove sat by the fire, and told of the sawing for Riley Brooke.

“God rest him!” said the tinker, thoughtfully puffing his pipe.  “What would happen, think ye, if a man like him were let into heaven?”

“I cannot imagine,” said the boy.

“Well, for one thing,” said the tinker, “he’d begin to look for chattels, an’ I do fear me there’d soon be many without harps.”