style="font-size:15px;"> "Certainly not. I am willing to work in the factory, but I wouldn't go round sawing wood."
"You can afford to be proud, James, but I can't. We are almost out of money, and I must do something."
"I don't believe the deacon will give you much of anything. He hasn't the reputation of being very generous."
"I must take my chance at that."
"I am sorry for it. I wanted you to go fishing with me this afternoon."
"I should like to go, James, but business before pleasure, they say."
"Ben has not pride," thought James, as he went away, disappointed.
But he was mistaken. Ben was proud in his way, but he was not too proud to do honest work.
Chapter VIII
About four o'clock on the afternoon of the third day, Ben completed his job. Not only had he sawed and split the wood, but carried it into the woodshed and piled it up neatly, all ready for use. He surveyed his work not without complacency.
"The deacon can't find fault with that job," he said to himself. "He ought to pay me a good price."
The shed opened out of the kitchen. Ben rubbed his feet carefully on the mat, knowing that housekeepers had a prejudice against mud or dust, and, ascending a couple of steps, entered the kitchen. Miss Nancy was there, superintending her "help."
"Well, Miss Nancy," said Ben, "I've finished the wood."
"Have you piled it up in the woodshed?" asked the lady.
"Yes. Won't you come and look at it?"
Nancy Sawyer stepped into the shed, and surveyed the wood approvingly.
"You've done well," she said. "And now I suppose you want your money."
"It would be convenient," admitted Ben.
"You'll have to see father about that," said Nancy.
"Can I see him now?" asked Ben, a little anxiously, for he knew that his aunt's stock of money had dwindled to ten cents.
"Yes; you may go right into the sitting-room."
This room was connected by a door with the kitchen.
"Wait a minute," said Nancy; and she looked at Ben in rather an embarrassed way.
Ben paused with his hand on the latch, waiting to hear what Miss
Nancy had to say.
"My father is very careful with his money," she said. "He may not realize how much work there has been in sawing and splitting the wood. He may not pay you what it is worth."
Ben looked serious, for he knew that he needed all he had earned.
"What shall I do if he doesn't?" he asked.
"I don't want you to dispute about it. Take what he gives you, and then come to me. I will make up what is lacking in one way or another."
"Thank you, Miss Nancy. You are very kind," said Ben.
"I don't know about that," said Nancy. "I don't pretend to be very benevolent; but I want to be just, and in my opinion that is a good deal better. Now you may go in."
Ben lifted the latch, and entered the sitting-room. He found that the deacon was not alone. A gentleman, of perhaps thirty-five, was with him.
"I hope I am not intruding," said Ben politely, "but I have finished with the wood."
Though Deacon Sawyer was a very "close" man, he was always prompt in his payments. So much must be said to his credit. He never thought, therefore, of putting Ben off.
"I suppose you want to be paid, Benjamin?" he said.
"Yes, sir, I should like it, if convenient to you."
"Lemme see, Benjamin, how long has it taken you?"
"Two days and a half, sir."
"Not quite. It's only four o'clock now. Have you just go through?"
"Yes, sir."
"We didn't make no bargain, did we?"
"No, sir, I left it to you."
"Quite right. So you did. Now, Benjamin," continued the deacon, "I want to do the fair thing by you. Two days and a half, at twenty-five cents a day, will make sixty-two cents; or we will say sixty-three. Will that do?"
Poor Ben! He had calculated on three times that sum, at least.
"That would only be a dollar and a half a week," he said, looking very much disappointed.
"I used to work for that when I was young," said the deacon.
"At the factory I was paid five dollars a week," said Ben.
"Nobody of your age can earn as much as that," said the deacon sharply. "No wonder manufacturin' don't pay, when such wages are paid. What do you say, Mr. Manning?" continued the deacon, appealing to the gentlemen with him.
Mr. Manning's face wore an amused smile. He lived in the city, and his ideas on the subject of money and compensation were much less contracted than the deacon's.
"Since you appeal to me," he answered. "I venture to suggest that prices have gone up a good deal since you were a boy, Deacon Sawyer, and twenty-five cents won't go as far now as it did then."
"You are right," said the deacon; "it costs a sight for groceries nowadays. Well, Benjamin, I'll pay you a little more than I meant to. Here's a dollar, and that's good pay for two days and a half."
Ben took the money, but for the life of him he couldn't thank the deacon very heartily. He had been paid at the rate of forty cents a day, which would amount to two dollars and forty cents a week, for work considerably harder than he had done at the factory.
"Good afternoon," he said briefly, and reentered the kitchen.
Nancy Sawyer scanned his face closely as he closed the door of the sitting-room. She was not surprised at his expression of disappointment.
"Well," she inquired, "what did father pay you?"
"He wanted to pay me sixty-three cents," answered Ben, with a touch of indignation in his tone. "Twenty-five cents a day."
"Of course that was much too little. What did he pay you?"
"A dollar."
"How much were you expecting to get?" asked Nancy, in a business-like tone.
"I was hoping to get seventy-five cents a day. That would be less than I got at the factory."
"I think your work was worth that much myself," said the spinster.
Ben felt encouraged.
"My father is getting old. He forgets that money won't buy as much as it did in his younger days. He means
