Strength! Strength was what she needed, and he gave it to her in generous measure. To come into the same room with him, or to meet him at the door, was to take heart of life. And when he had gone, she returned to her books with fresh store of energy.
Her interest in Martin increased, and she wanted to rebuild his life.
“There is Mr. Butler,” she said one afternoon, when grammar and arithmetic and poetry had been put aside.
“He had comparatively no advantages at first. His father was a bank cashier, but he died in Arizona, so that when he was dead, Mr. Butler found himself alone in the world. His father had come from Australia, you know, and so he had no relatives in California. He went to work in a printing-office, and he got three dollars a week, at first. His income today is at least thirty thousand a year. How did he do it? He was honest, and faithful, and industrious, and economical. He denied himself the enjoyments that most boys like. He saved some coins every week. Of course, he was soon earning more than three dollars a week, and he saved more and more.
“He worked in the daytime, and at night he went to night school. He always thought about the future. Later on he went to night high school. When he was only seventeen, he had a good salary, but he was ambitious. He wanted a career, not a livelihood. He entered father’s office as an office boy – think of that! – and got only four dollars a week. But he had learned how to be economical.”
She paused for breath, and to note how Martin was receiving it. His face was lighted up with interest in the youthful struggles of Mr. Butler; but there was a frown upon his face as well.
“Poor young fellow,” he remarked. “Four dollars a week! How could he live on it? Like a dog, I guess. The food he ate – ”
“He cooked for himself,” she interrupted, “on a little kerosene stove.”
“The food he ate was very bad, I suppose, worse than what a sailor gets.”
“But think of him now!” she cried enthusiastically. “Think of what his income affords him.”
Martin looked at her sharply.
“There’s one thing I’ll tell you,” he said, “Mr. Butler has had no joy for years, hasn’t he? I think his stomach is not very good now. I’ll bet he’s got dyspepsia right now!”
“Yes, he has,” she confessed; “but – ”
“And I bet,” Martin continued, “that he isn’t joyful when others have a good time. Am I right?”