George leaned against the door-casing, and looked thoughtfully across the fields.  “There are more turnpikes in life than one, my boy,” he said kindly, “and every one has its toll-gate.  There is the road to learning.  I gave up everything to get through that gate, even my health.  One cannot be anything or do anything worth while without paying some sort of toll.  It may be time or strength or hard work or patience, and sometimes we have to give them all.”

“’Peahs like I’ve nevah struck any such roads in my travellin’,” answered John Jay, carelessly, who often understood George’s little parables far better than he cared to acknowledge.

“But I know one road that you are on now, where you try to slip out of paying what you owe every day.”

John Jay hung his head, and rubbed his bare feet together in embarrassed silence.  If the Reverend George said it was so, it must be so, although he did not know just what he was hinting at.

“Mr. Boden knows very well,” continued George, “that the money that is paid here goes to keep the road in good condition for him to travel over.  He is very glad to have such a good pike provided for him, but he wants it for nothing.  I know a poor old woman who keeps the road smooth for somebody.  She works early and late, in hot weather and cold, to earn food and shelter and clothes for somebody; and that somebody eats her bread, and wears out the clothes, and sleeps under her roof, and never pays any toll.  He owes her thanks and willing service,—­all the help he can give her poor, tired old body, but she never gets even the thanks.  He takes all her drudgery as a matter of course.”

John Jay’s head dropped lower and lower, as he screwed his toes around in the dust of the path, mortified and embarrassed.  All the whippings of his life had never stung him so deeply as George’s quiet words.  He was used to being scolded for his laziness.  He never paid any attention to that; but to have his “Rev’und Gawge” regard him as dishonest as Mr. Boden hurt him more than words could express.

Another wagon came rattling up in a cloud of dust.  Without waiting to see the newcomer, he dodged around the corner of the house and ran down to the barn.  A pair of puppies came frisking out ready for a romp, and an old Maltese cat, stretched out in the sun, stood up and arched its back at his approach.  He took no notice of them, but crawling up into the hay, threw himself down in a dark corner with his face hidden in his arms.

Mars’ Nat came home after awhile.  John Jay could hear Ned putting the horse into the stall, and throwing the corn into the feed-box.  Then everything was still for a long time.  The sun stole through the cracks of the barn in wide shining streaks, with little motes of dust dancing up and down in the golden light, but John Jay did not see them.  A shadow darkened the doorway.  He did not see that, for his face was still hidden.  There was a step on the barn floor, and a rustling in the hay beside him; then George’s hand rested lightly on his head, and his voice said, soothingly, “There, there!  I wouldn’t cry about it.”