So Tom read aloud the month’s report of the number of hands employed, the wages of each, the amount of work performed and the expenses of the place. It was all correctly done, and then the two fell to work--the master arranging the books for Tom’s future work, and the boy copying. There was nothing very elegant about the writing, but it was a round, even hand, very plain and distinct. Yet as he wrote Tom was troubled. He wondered if his Master knew that these business affairs were all fully understood by him. Mr. Sutherland’s books were very simple, and, with Tom’s late knowledge of arithmetic, very easily understood. He wondered if his master realized that one of his field hands comprehended all the business of the plantation. By and by, when for a few minutes both came to a standstill, Tom spoke: “Mr. Sutherland, do you know that I understand all this work I am copying.” “Do you mean to tell me you understand the losses and gains during the month?” “Yes, sir.” Mr. Sutherland looked annoyed and perplexed, and his wife laughed and remarked that he had better take her advice and send the boy back to his cotton. “I would not care, Bertha,” he replied, “if I were only sure I could trust the boy.” “Of what are you afraid, Mr. Sutherland?” asked Tom, with a little fire in his eyes. “Only of your reporting the state of affairs at Aunt Margaret’s gatherings,” he replied. “I shall not do that, sir,” said Tom, firmly. “But the question is,” said Mr. Sutherland, “whether I can trust your word.” Tom’s eyes certainly flashed fire for a moment; all his old spirit of unrestrained passion ran through him, sending the blood throbbing all over his body, trembling on his lips, dancing in his eyes, gathering on his forehead, and causing the fingers that held the pen to close upon it like a vice. This lasted for a minute, and then remembering his love for the Lord Jesus, and at the same time that the master could not know how well he could be trusted, the fingers relaxed their grasp, the brow cleared, the lips unbent and formed a smile, and the eyes dropped. “I hope I may be trusted, sir. Will you try me?” he asked, quietly. “Yes, I will,” replied Mr. Sutherland, who had watched the play of feature, and understood a little, although not half, of the boy’s thought. So they fell to work again--the little battle over and the victory won, and a battle-song of triumph in Tom’s heart, for “he that ruleth his own spirit is greater than he that taketh a city.” By and by, when the minutes had made an hour and more, the books were closed. The master’s little girl had come round near her father’s chair, and stood there holding on to the arm of the chair, swinging to and fro, and singing, “Jesus loves me,” as Tom and Mr. Sutherland finished the evening’s work with arrangements to resume it at the same hour on the morrow. Then Tom turned to the little girl: “Miss Lillie, do you know the rest of that verse?” he asked.