"Gracious! I had no idea it was so early as that," exclaimed the lad.
"If you are not in such a great hurry, stop a bit," urged the woman, her keen eyes noting certain things that she did not give voice to. She had known Phil Forrest for many years, and his parents before him. Furthermore, she knew something of the life he had led since the death of his parents. "Had your breakfast?"
"Well--"
"Of course you haven't. Come right in and eat with me," urged the good-hearted widow.
"If you will let me do some chores, or something to pay for it, I will," agreed Phil hesitatingly.
"Nothing of the kind! You'll keep me company at breakfast; then you'll be telling me all about it."
"About what?"
" 'Bout your going away," pointing significantly to the bag that Phil was carrying.
He was ravenously hungry, though he did not realize it fully until the odor of the widow's savory cooking smote his nostrils.
She watched him eat with keen satisfaction.
"Now tell me what's happened," urged Mrs. Cahill, after he had finished the meal.
Phil did so. He opened his heart to the woman who had known his mother, while she listened in sympathetic silence, now and then uttering an exclamation of angry disapproval when his uncle's words were repeated to her.
"And you're turned out of house and home? Is that it, my boy?"
"Well, yes, that's about it," grinned Phil.
"It's a shame."
"I'm not complaining, you know, Mrs. Cahill. Perhaps it's the best thing that could have happened to me. I've got to start out for myself sometime, you know. I'm glad of one thing, and that is that I didn't have to go until school closed. I get through the term today, you know?"
"And you're going to school today?"
"Oh, yes. I wouldn't want to miss the last day."
"Then what?"
"I don't know. I shall find something else to do, I guess. I want to earn enough money this summer so that I can go to school again in the fall."
"And you shall. You shall stay right here with the Widow Cahill until you've got through with your schooling, my lad."
"I couldn't think of that. No; I am not going to be a burden to anyone. Don't you see how I feel--that I want to earn my own living now?"
She nodded understandingly.
"You can do some chores and--"
"I'll stay here until I find something else to do," agreed Phil slowly. "I shan't be able to look about much today, because I'll be too busy at school; but tomorrow I'll begin hunting for a job. What can I do for you this morning?"
"Well, you might chop some wood if you are aching to exercise your muscles," answered the widow, with a twinkle in her eyes. She knew that there was plenty of wood stored in the woodhouse, but she was too shrewd an observer to tell Phil so, realizing, as she did, that the obligation he felt for her kindness was too great to be lightly treated.
Phil got at his task at once, and in a few moments she heard him whistling an accompaniment to the steady thud, thud of the axe as he swung it with strong, resolute arms.
"He's a fine boy," was the Widow Cahill's muttered conclusion.
Phil continued at his work without intermission until an hour had passed. Mrs. Cahill went out, begging that he come in and rest.
"Rest? Why, haven't I been resting all night? I feel as if I could chop down the house and work it up into kindling wood, all before school time. What time is it?"
"Nigh on to seven o'clock. I've wanted to ask you something ever since you told me you had left Abner Adams. It's rather a personal question."
The lad nodded.
"Did your uncle send you away without any money?"
"Of course. Why should he have given me anything so long as I was going to leave him?"
"Did you ever hear him say that your mother had left a little money with him before she died--money that was to be used for your education as long as it lasted?"
Phil straightened up slowly, his axe falling to the ground, an expression of surprise appeared in his eyes.
"My mother left money--for me, you say?" he wondered.
"No, Phil, I haven't said so. I asked you if Abner had ever said anything of the sort?"
"No. Do you think she did?"
"I'm not saying what I think. I wish I was a man; I'd read old Abner Adams a lecture that he wouldn't forget as long as he lives."
Phil smiled indulgently.
"He's an old man, Mrs. Cahill. He's all crippled up with rheumatism, and maybe he's got a right to be cranky--"
"And to turn his own sister's child outdoors, eh? Not by a long shot. Rheumatics don't give anybody any call to do any such a thing as that. He ought to have his nose twisted, and it's me, a good church member, as says so."
The lad picked up his axe and resumed his occupation, while Mrs. Cahill turned up a chunk of wood and sat down on it, keeping up a running fire of comment, mostly directed at Abner Adams, and which must have made his ears burn.
Shortly after eight o'clock Phil gathered his books, strapped them and announced that he would be off for school.
"I'll finish the woodpile after school," he called back, as he was leaving the gate.
"You'll do nothing of the sort," retorted the Widow Cahill.
Darting out of the yard, Phil ran plump into someone, and halted sharply with an earnest apology.
"Seems to me you're in a terrible rush about something. Where you going?"
"Hello, Teddy, that you?"
"It's me," answered Teddy ungrammatically.
"I'm on my way to school."
"Never could understand why anybody should want to run when he's going to school. Now, I always run when I start off after school's out. What you doing here?" demanded the boy, drawing his eyelids down into a squint.
"I've been chopping some wood for Mrs. Cahill."
"Huh! What's the matter with the bear this morning?"
"The bear?"
Teddy jerked a significant thumb in the direction of Phil's former home.
"Bear's got a grouch on a rod wide this morning."
"Oh, you mean Uncle Abner," answered Phil, his face clouding.
"Yep."
"Why?"
"I just dropped in to see if you were ready to go to school. He yelled at me like he'd gone crazy."
"That all?" grinned the other boy.
"No. He chased me down the road till his game knee gave out; then he fell down."
Phil could not repress a broad grin at this news.
"Good thing for me that I could run. He'd have given me a walloping for sure if he'd caught me. I'll bet that stick hurts when it comes down on a fellow. Don't it, Phil?"
"I should think it would. I have never felt it, but I have had some pretty narrow escapes. What did the folks you are living with say when you got home all mud last night?"
Teddy grinned a sheepish sort of grin.
"Told me I'd better go out in the horse barn--said my particular style of beauty was better suited to the stable than to the kitchen."
"Did you?"
"Well,