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After dinner Chester decided that it was time to make himself useful.

“Can’t I go right to work now?” he asked.

“We don’t begin harvest till tomorrow,” said Miss Salome. “You’d better rest this afternoon.”

“Oh, I’m all right now,” insisted Chester. “I feel fine. Please give me something to do.”

“You can go out and cut me some wood for my afternoon’s baking,” said Clemantiny. “And see you cut it short enough. Any other boy that’s tried always gets it about two inches too long.”

When he had gone out, she said scornfully to Miss Salome, “Well, what do you expect that size to accomplish in a harvest field, Salome Whitney?”

“Not very much, perhaps,” said Miss Salome mildly. “But what could I do? You wouldn’t have me turn the child adrift on the world again, would you, Clemantiny?”

Clemantiny did not choose to answer this appeal. She rattled her dishes noisily into the dishpan.

“Well, where are you going to put him to sleep?” she demanded. “The hands you’ve got will fill the kitchen chamber. There’s only the spare room left. You’ll hardly put him there, I suppose? Your philanthropy will hardly lead you as far as that.”

When Clemantiny employed big words and sarcasm at the same time, the effect was tremendous. But Miss Salome didn’t wilt.

“What makes you so prejudiced against him?” she asked curiously.

“I’m not prejudiced against him. But that story about himself didn’t ring true. I worked in Upton years ago, and there weren’t any Bensons there then. There’s more behind that he hasn’t told. I’d find out what it was before I took him into my house, that’s all. But I’m not prejudiced.”

“Well, well,” said Miss Salome soothingly, “we must do the best we can for him. It’s a sort of duty. And as for a room for him–why, I’ll put him in Johnny’s.”

Clemantiny opened her mouth and shut it again. She understood that it would be a waste of breath to say anything more. If Miss Salome had made up her mind to put this freckled, determined-looking waif, dropped on her doorstep from heaven knew where, into Johnny’s room, that was an end of the matter.

“But I’ll not be surprised at anything after this,” she muttered as she carried her dishes into the pantry. “First a skinny little urchin goes and faints on her doorstep. Then she hires him and puts him in Johnny’s room. Johnny’s room! Salome Whitney, what do you mean?”

Perhaps Miss Salome hardly knew what she meant. But somehow her heart went out warmly to this boy. In spite of Clemantiny’s sniffs, she held to the opinion that he looked like Johnny. Johnny was a little nephew of hers. She had taken him to bring up when his parents died, and she had loved him very dearly. He had died four years ago, and since that time the little front room over the front porch had never been occupied. It was just as Johnny had left it. Beyond keeping it scrupulously clean, Miss Salome never allowed it to be disturbed. And now a somewhat ragged lad from nowhere was to be put into it! No wonder Clemantiny shook her head when Miss Salome went up to air it.

* * * * *

Even Clemantiny had to admit that Chester was willing to work. He split wood until she called him to stop. Then he carried in the wood-box full, and piled it so neatly that even the grim handmaiden was pleased. After that, she sent him to the garden to pick the early beans. In the evening he milked three cows and did all the chores, falling into the ways of the place with a deft adaptability that went far to soften Clemantiny’s heart.

“He’s been taught to work somewheres,” she admitted grudgingly, “and he’s real polite and respectful. But he looks too cute by half. And his name isn’t Benson any more than mine. When I called him ‘Chester Benson’ out there in the cow-yard, he stared at me fer half a minute ‘sif I’d called him Nebuchadnezzar.”