While he was following his father about, Bertie forgot to watch his donkey.  When it was near dinner time, Mr. Curtis said, ­

“Don’t go off till I see you, Herbert, I want to ride to the blacksmith’s; and you may drive me there.”

The boy started and began to look in every direction, hoping to see Whitefoot quietly feeding on the lawn.

But neither on the hill, nor behind the chestnut grove could he be seen.  Bertie’s lip quivered, and then the tears filled his eyes.

“He’s gone, papa; my pretty donkey is lost.”

“Don’t cry, my son,” said Mr. Curtis, in a cheerful tone.  “Crying for a donkey never brought one back, that I ever heard of.  Take a handful of corn from Tom’s pail, and run toward the lake.  Call him by name and perhaps he will come.”

Bertie hesitated, his cheeks growing very red.  At last, when papa wondered what made him delay, the little fellow asked, ­

“Can’t I wait till Tom comes back?  I’m almost sure he’ll give me some of his corn; but mamma told me never to touch anything that belongs to the men, without asking their leave.”

“Mamma was right, my son, as she always is; and I’m greatly pleased that you remember her instructions.  There is Tom coming with a load, now, you may run and ask him to give you a handful of corn to call your donkey with.  Perhaps he has seen the creature somewhere.”

Bertie was off like a dart that has been shot from a bow; and his father could see him gesturing away as he walked back at Tom’s side.

“Did you come all this way to ask for a few kernels of corn?” asked the man, staring at the child in wonder.  “Why, you might have taken a pint, and neither I nor the oxen would ever have known it.”

“But God sees everything we do,” said the boy.  “I knew ’twas yours, ’cause I saw you turn it out of a bag; and I couldn’t touch it without your leave, you know.”

“Well, now, I must say you’re the honestest little shaver I ever did see,” answered Tom, regarding the child almost with awe.  “If it had been my boy, he’d snatched up the corn and run off with it, and never have thought another breath about it.”

“Mamma teaches me how wicked it is to steal,” Bertie went on.  “Perhaps your boy,” gazing anxiously in the man’s face, “hasn’t any mother to teach him.”

Tom’s mouth worked convulsively; and presently he wiped his eyes with his dirty shirt sleeve.

“No, he hasn’t,” he answered.  “She’s dead this six months.”

They were now almost back to the cellar, and after a moment’s silence, Tom added, ­

“If the corn was mine, you’d be welcome to as much as you want of it; but it’s in the agreement that the Squire shall give the oxen their feed at noon.  So I bring along the corn from the store; and he pays the bill.”

“Oh, I’m glad, I’m real glad,” shouted Bertie, bounding away.

“Whitefoot, Whitefoot!” he called, at the top of his voice; “Whitefoot! come.”

“There’s your donkey,” shouted Jim, “coming up the hill with Star and Spot.  There, just behind that big oak by the lake.”

So Bertie called again, “Whitefoot ­Whitefoot!” and presently the donkey gave a little neigh in reply.  I suppose he wanted to say, “I hear you, my young master, and I’ll go as quick as I can;” for he started off at once into a brisk trot.  Very soon, to Bertie’s great delight, the lost donkey was eating the corn out of his hand.

When the men walked side by side on their way to the old wall which they were pulling down for stone, Tom repeated to his companion what had passed between him and Bertie.

“That’s the kind o’ religion I believe in,” he exclaimed, making a furious gesture with his brawny arm.  “The Squire isn’t one of your sot-up men who thinks working-folks are made of different stuff, and haven’t any more souls than a beast.  He lives his religion right straight through the week instead o’ keeping it bottled up for Sunday use, like some long-faced men I could name.”

“Jes so,” answered Jim, with an approving nod.

“Do you suppose I’d ever cheat him out of the valley of a cent arter such a lesson as that boy give me?  No, not for my right arm.  I know when I’m treated like a man.”

“You got a pretty hard hit this morning, then,” muttered Jim, glancing sideways in his companion’s face.

“Wall, I deserved it, I’ll own up to that.  I’d no business to talk such stuff before the Squire, letting alone the boy.  I’ll let him do the swearing in futer, as he’s agreed to.”