“I haven’t much of anything to tell,” Ben answered slowly. “You see, I always lived in the country, and in just one place till father and mother died four years ago. But, oh, it was so pleasant there! Back of the house was the orchard, and beyond that a long hill where we went coasting in the winter, Theodore and I—he’s my brother three years older. At the foot of the hill was a little creek where we used to go fishing in spring. The fish were mostly suckers. I suppose some folks wouldn’t have cooked ’em; but then mothers will do ’most anything for boys; at any rate, such a mother as ours would, and my, but they did taste good! We used to skate on the creek, too, in the winter. But you’ve never been in the country in the winter; you don’t know what fun it is: sliding down hill, sleighriding, and snowballing, all such fun,” and Ben’s eyes sparkled as he named them.

“The house, too, was so cozy. A red house with a trumpet-vine growing over it, and a long porch in front. I always like to see a red house because it makes me think of home. And out in the orchard there were strawberry apples, and seek-no-furthers, and nonesuches. A big grapevine ran all along the woodhouse. There was a black-walnut tree in the back yard, some chestnut trees in the pasture, beside hickory trees in the north woods. And didn’t we go nutting in the fall, just didn’t we! Whole bags of nuts to crack in the winter evenings and eat with apples, though the getting ’em is better than the eating, after all.

“On the edge of the creek was the sugar bush, and in the spring we used to help father gather the maple sap from the trees and boil it down in the old sugar house. It was hard work, but there was fun with it—the sugaring off, and making wax on the snow, and stirring the warm sugar. I tell you I feel awful sorry for boys who have never lived in the country and had any of the good times. Of course we went to school, not quite a mile over the hill, and Sundays we went three miles to church.

“And best of all were father and mother! I couldn’t begin to tell you how good they were. Mother used to tell us stories, and help us make balls and kites; and father would take us with him, and let us follow him about the farm, when I suppose we hindered a good deal more than we helped. He was always ready to answer our questions, too, and to help us with a hard lesson, and he used to give us calves and lambs for our very own. I don’t believe there ever was a father and mother did more to make two boys happy,” and Ben drew a tremulous sigh.

“Mother was always delicate,” he went on after a moment’s pause, “and father and we boys used to do all we could to help her. But one fall she took a hard cold—none of us once thought of it being anything more than a cold. All winter she coughed so hard, and nothing the doctor gave her did any good. Theodore and I used to say to each other, ‘When it comes spring then mother will be well again,’ and we were so glad of the warm days, for they would make mother better. She didn’t get better, though; she kept growing weaker and weaker, and the children at school began to ask me did I know my mother was going to die? It made me so angry to have them say such things; and sometimes I would wake up in the night and find Theodore crying, for he is older, you know, and realized more what was coming. Then I would put my arms around his neck and say, ‘Don’t cry, Theodore; of course mother will get well. Why, we can’t live without her!’

“So it went on till September, and by that time she could only walk around the house a little, and had to lie on the sitting-room lounge most of the time; but so sweet and patient, there was never any one like her, I’m sure. Father used to come in from his work every little while and sit beside her, and when he went out I would see the tears in his eyes, for I suppose it was hardest of all for him. In September the men came with the thrashing-machine to thrash the wheat and oats. It was a chilly day for that time of the year, with one of those raw, sharp winds that cuts right through you. The dust of the thrashing always made father about sick, and with that and the weather he took a sudden cold that settled on his lungs. That night he was so sick Theodore had to go for the doctor, and, Posey, he only lived three days.

“I couldn’t believe it. He had always been so strong and well that I had never thought of his dying. I knew the doctor thought he was very sick, and we were all frightened, but I didn’t once think he was going to die. And when he called us to him to bid us good-by, and told us to do all we could for mother, and to be good boys and good men, and live so that we should be ready for God’s call when it came for us—I didn’t believe it even then—I didn’t believe it till he was—gone.”

Ben’s voice had grown husky, and he stopped for a little before he could go on. “For about two weeks after that mother kept about as she had been, and what with the shock and excitement even seemed a little stronger. But one night we had to help her into her room and the next morning she said she felt so weak she wouldn’t try to get up. And she never left her room again. She failed so fast it seemed as though we could just see her slipping away from us; and she was so happy to go, except as she was sorry to leave us boys. She told us how we had better manage, and what she wanted us to do and be; and I don’t believe either Theodore or I will ever forget what she said to us or the promises we made to her.

“When father died it was hard enough, though there was mother left. But when she went, only three weeks after him, I tell you it was awful. I never shall forget as long as I live the evening after mother’s funeral. You see, father had only one brother, Uncle Ben, out in Nebraska, so of course he couldn’t come. Uncle John, mother’s only brother, lived fifty miles away, and George, his boy, was sick with a fever, so he had to go right back; that left us all alone with Matty, the girl. And after we had looked after the chores and went in and sat down everything was so strange and empty and lonesome, I never shall forget it.

“Every night since we could remember father, or mother if he was away, had read a chapter in the Bible and had prayers. After father died Theodore had read the chapter and mother had prayed, if it was only a word or two, till the very last night she lived. She had said she hoped we would try and do as near as we could as we always had when she and father were with us, so Theodore thought we’d better have prayers; that they’d want us to. He read the chapter—I don’t see how he did it—and said he thought we could say the Lord’s prayer, anyway, and we kneeled down and began. But all at once it came over us like a great wave how everything was changed and always would be, and it broke us all up so we couldn’t go through with it.” And Ben’s voice choked and failed him at the recollection, while unchecked tears of sympathy ran down Posey’s cheeks.

“When Uncle John went away he told us to do the best we could and as soon as George was better and he could leave home he would come and help us settle everything up. There wasn’t so very much to do beside the everyday work except to gather the apples and harvest the corn. We had a big field of corn that year, but we managed to get it cut up and began to husk it. But it was slow work, for I was only a little shaver—not quite eleven years old, and Theodore isn’t strong like I am. It came on cold early that fall and we got pretty discouraged. One night there was a circle round the moon, and Theodore said he was afraid we were goin’ to have a snowstorm. That would make the husking harder, and we both felt real worried. But what do you think? When we went out in the field the next morning the corn was all husked and in heaps ready to draw in! It had been a moonlight night and the neighbors had all turned in and done it for us. They were all so good to us I shall never forget it of them.

“As soon as he could Uncle John came back, and then we sold the farm. We hated to, but he thought that was best, for though it was only a small one we were too young to manage it. When everything was settled there was eight hundred dollars apiece for Theodore and me. Uncle John put this out at interest for us, secured by mortgage so it should be safe, and took us home with him. But Uncle John isn’t rich by any means, and he has five children of his own, so though they are all kind as can be we didn’t want to live on him. For two years now, I’ve been driving this tin-cart summers. I get twenty dollars a month and my expenses, and I’ve a hundred dollars in the bank I earned myself. Winters I live at Uncle John’s and go to school. He won’t take anything for my board, but I buy dresses and things for Aunt Eunice and my cousins; they are so good to me I want to do what I can for them. With what I earn and the interest on my own money, as soon as I’m old enough I mean to buy a farm. I would like a store, but Uncle John thinks a farm is safer, and perhaps I’ll buy the old farm back.”

“How nice that would be!” cried Posey.

“Why, see here, Posey,” with the force of a sudden idea, “when I get a farm I shall need somebody to keep the house, and I’ll tell you what I’ll do, I’ll marry you. Then you can have a home, too; we’re both orphans and haven’t either of us one now.”

Posey clapped her hands. “That will be splendid! I know I should just love to live on a farm, and I will learn to make butter, and do all the things they do on farms. But,” and her face sobered, “won’t your brother want to live with you?”

“No; Theodore doesn’t take to farming. He’s teaching now, a summer school up in Michigan. His plan is to go to college and then be a minister. He’ll make a tiptop one, too.”

“I think you ought to be a minister,” said Posey. “You talk good enough for one.”

“Me? Shucks,” and Ben gave a long whistle. “I ain’t good enough for a minister. Besides, I never could talk before folks as Theodore can. I wish you could hear him lead the Endeavor meeting. I tried to once, and my, I was so scared I didn’t know whether I was afoot or horseback.”

Posey’s eyes had grown wide. “Why, I thought it was only grown-up people who were Christians and dreadfully good, like old Deacon Piper and Mr. Hagood, who spoke in meetings.”

“This was just Endeavor meeting. But then that isn’t so at all.” Ben’s tone was emphatic. “Boys and girls can be Christians; mother explained that to me years ago. It’s just loving God best of all, and trying to do as He wants us to. Folks don’t have to wait till they are grown up to do that, or are awfully good, either. I’m glad they don’t, or there wouldn’t be much show for me; my temper boils over about as quick as Aunt Eunice’s teakettle. But I keep pegging away at it, and I can hold on better than I could, I know, for some of the folks I trade with are enough to provoke a saint. But that’s the only way to grow good—keep trying. You can do that as well as anybody. And you love God, don’t you?”

She shook her head as she answered mournfully, “I’m afraid not. I know I don’t feel about Him as you do.”

“I’m sorry,” Ben said simply. “I wish you did. You don’t know what a comfort it is when you get in a tight place and things seem to be mixed up all in a tangle, to feel that God will make everything come out just as is best for you. I really wish you did.”

Posey made no answer. She only reached up and caught a handful of leaves from a tree they were passing under, and asked Ben what kind of leaves they were. At the same time the fact that Ben Pancost, a boy who had a freckled face, who laughed and joked and told funny stories, who loved to skate, to coast, to play baseball, and in short enjoyed all the things that boys did, should talk about loving God, and God’s taking care of him, as though this was the most natural thing in the world, made a deep impression on her mind, and one that never was forgotten.