Irving made his corrections in a neat, pretty little hand, which of itself seemed to reprove the student’s awkward scrawl.  He turned then to his own studies, which he was pursuing in a tattered volume of Blackstone’s Commentaries on the English Common Law.  He did not get on very fast with this book, and sometimes he wondered what bearing it could have on the practice of the law in Ohio at the present time.  But he had been advised to familiarize himself with the work in the interval before he should enter a law school—­an interval of such doubtful length!

Mr. Beasley’s entrance caused him to look up.

“I shall be leaving you in less than a month now, Mr. Beasley,” he said.

“Got a job to teach, have you?” asked the storekeeper.

“Yes—­at St. Timothy’s School.”

“Where may that be?”

“Up in New Hampshire.”

“Quite a ways off.  But I suppose you don’t mind that much—­having been away to college.”

“No, I think I’ll like it.  Besides,—­now Lawrence will be able to go to college this fall, and he and I will be pretty near each other.  We’ll be able to spend our holidays together.  I think it’s fine.”

“It does sound so,” agreed Mr. Beasley.  “Well, I’ll be sorry to lose you, Irving.  The folks all like to have you wait on ’em; you’re so polite and tidy.  But I know clerking in a country store ain’t much of a job for a college graduate, and I’m glad you’ve found something better.”

“I’m glad if I’ve been of any use to you,” replied Irving.  “I know you didn’t expect I would be when you took me in.  And your giving me this chance has meant that I could stay on here and tutor Lawrence this summer and at the same time pay all my living expenses.  It’s been more of a help than you know—­to Lawrence as well as to me.”

“You’re both good boys,” said Mr. Beasley.  “But it seems like you’re too shy and quiet ever to make much of a lawyer, Irving—­or a teacher,” he added, in candid criticism.

Irving blushed.  “Maybe I’ll get over that in time, Mr. Beasley.”

“You had better,” observed the storekeeper.  “It’s of no manner of use to anybody—­not a particle.  Lawrence, now, is different.”

Yes, Lawrence was different; the fact impressed itself that evening on Irving when his brother came home from the haying field with his uncle.  Lawrence was big and ruddy and laughing; Irving was slight and delicate and grave.  The two boys went together to their room to make themselves ready for supper.

“We finished the north meadow to-day,” said Lawrence,—­“the whole of it.  So don’t blame me if I go to sleep over French verbs this evening.”

“I’ll tell you something that will wake you up,” Irving replied.  “I’m going to teach at St. Timothy’s School—­in New Hampshire.  So your going to college is sure, and we’ll be only a couple of hours apart.”

“Oh, Irv!” In Lawrence’s exclamation there was more expressiveness, more joy, than in all his brother’s carefully restrained statement.  “Oh, Irv!  Isn’t it splendid!  I think you’re the finest thing—!” Lawrence grasped Irving’s hand and at the same time began thumping him on the back.  Then he opened the door and shouted down the stairs.