"'Tis done then," said my father, concluding the business more quickly
than I had ever before known his cautious temper settle even such a
seemingly trifling matter. I say SEEMINGLY. How blindly we talk when
we talk of "trifles."

Carelessly rising, he, from some kindly impulse, or else to mark the
closing of the bargain, shook the boy's hand, and left in it a shilling.

"What is this for?"

"To show I have hired thee as my servant."

"Servant!" John repeated hastily, and rather proudly. "Oh yes, I
understand--well, I will try and serve you well."

My father did not notice that manly, self-dependent smile. He was too
busy calculating how many more of those said shillings would be a fair
equivalent for such labour as a lad, ever so much the junior of Bill
Watkins, could supply. After some cogitation he hit upon the right
sum. I forget how much--be sure it was not over much; for money was
scarce enough in this war-time; and besides, there was a belief afloat,
so widely that it tainted even my worthy father, that plenty was not
good for the working-classes; they required to be kept low.

Having settled the question of wages, which John Halifax did not debate
at all, my father left us, but turned back when half-way across the
green-turfed square.

"Thee said thee had no money; there's a week in advance, my son being
witness I pay it thee; and I can pay thee a shilling less every
Saturday till we get straight."

"Very well, sir; good afternoon, and thank you."

John took off his cap as he spoke--Abel Fletcher, involuntarily almost,
touched his hat in return of the salutation. Then he walked away, and
we had the garden all to ourselves--we, Jonathan and his new-found
David.

I did not "fall upon his neck," like the princely Hebrew, to whom I
have likened myself, but whom, alas! I resembled in nothing save my
loving. But I grasped his hand, for the first time, and looking up at
him, as he stood thoughtfully by me, whispered, "that I was very glad."

"Thank you--so am I," said he, in a low tone. Then all his old manner
returned; he threw his battered cap high up in the air, and shouted
out, "Hurrah!"--a thorough boy.

And I, in my poor, quavering voice, shouted too.

CHAPTER III

When I was young, and long after then, at intervals, I had the very
useless, sometimes harmful, and invariably foolish habit of keeping a
diary. To me, at least, it has been less foolish and harmful than to
most; and