Part 10

"Do not!" exclaimed the clergyman, earnestly, smiling through the mist that gathered in his eyes. "Go; and God bless you!" he added, tenderly.

The jockey turned away, humble, and much affected. When he came up to where Chester was at work, he spoke to him in a friendly tone, and asked where he should commence.

"Follow after me, if you please," said the young man, with real kindness in his tones.

The quarrel seemed forgotten.

In a little while, Sam came limping to the field with a jug of fresh water. He was beginning to use his sprained ankle again, but he made awkward work of it. Mr. Royden called him, and drank from the jug, having first offered it to Father Brighthopes.

"Any mice, Jim?" asked Sam, slyly.

"We have no time to think of mice, my son," said the clergyman.

At that moment one of the little animals in question ran away from his rake, and took refuge under the wagon.

"I'll ketch him!" said Sam, with eyes sparkling mischief.

"Come, come! no nonsense this afternoon," cried Mr. Royden. "Go and carry the jug to the men. They're wanting it by this time."

"I'm going right along, sir," replied Sam, starting, but looking back for the mouse.

Mr. Royden went on. Turning presently, he saw the boy in hot pursuit of the unhappy mouse. He had forgotten about his lame foot. He was leaping about on the mown sward, and dancing this way and that, with surprising agility.

The truth is, his ankle had been nearly well for two or three days; and he had cherished the convenient habit of hopping and jumping only to excuse himself from labor. Betrayed into running by a mouse, and by his passion for mischief, he confirmed a suspicion which had already entered Mr. Royden's mind.

"Here, you little rascal!" cried the farmer, provoked, but at the same time not a little amused. "Sam Cone!"

Sam did not hear, or would not heed, so enthusiastic was he in the pursuit of fun. At length he made a seizure, with his hand in the turf, and brought up the mouse, screaming with delight.

"I got him! I got him! I g----Blast your pictur'!"

His song changed suddenly from joy to lamentation. The mouse had bit his finger with its sharp teeth, and would not let go. Sam flirted, yelled, and finally shook him off, with much ado. The animal escaped, while he, reflecting probably that it was a small affair to cry about, became silent, and squeezed the oozing drops of blood from his wounds, glancing sheepishly around, to see who was looking at him.

"So, your foot is well enough to chase mice, is it?" said Mr. Royden, with quiet humor. "Now, supposing you should take a rake, and help the men with those win'rows?"

"Got bit!" muttered Sam. "Darned ol' mouse!"

"Shall we send for a doctor?" laughed James.

"His teeth went clear through!" complained Sam, limping again worse than ever, and sucking his finger.

But he did not argue the propriety of obeying the farmer's directions. He carried the jug to the men, and went slowly, limpingly, to work.

XXIV.

THE THUNDER-STORM.

Mr. Royden got upon the stack with James, and, to hasten this department of the afternoon's work, Mark Wheeler and one of the laborers pitched up the load.

They had now commenced drawing from the windrows where they had been longest exposed to the curing process of the sun. On their return, Chester complained of Sam's laziness, declaring that he was only in the way.

"I'm lame, and you know it," said Sam, in an injured tone.

"Very lame, I know, you ambitious mouse-catcher!" said Mr. Royden. "I'll favor your broken leg. Here, if you can't rake hay, get up on the rick with James. See if you two can load as fast as Mark and I can pitch."

"Get up," cried Mark. "We'll find something for you to do."

Mark was a giant at pitching. He rolled up vast forkfuls, with which he inundated Sam at every rod. The latter had no time for fun; the moment he paused, up came a perfect cloud of hay, which he must dispose of, or be buried.

A towering load went to the stack. By the time the rick was emptied, the clouds, which had made no show of hostilities for some time, sent out a detachment that swept across the sky, black and threatening, wheeling and darkening the field.

"I vow," said Mark, "that looks like rain!"

"Rain--sure enough!" articulated Mr. Royden, with a troubled expression.

"A big sprinkle struck me right on the nose," cried Sam.

"I wish we had got up the hay that was down, the first thing after dinner, and left the cocks," said the farmer, pricking the horses. "I would have risked it in the stack, if I had known it was so well cured. If there should come up a rain, it would be spoilt."

There was real danger, and each man went to work as if the hay was all his own.

"Don't pitch so fast as you did afore, Mark," whined Sam. "You 'most covered me up, fifteen or sixteen times."

"It'll do you good," replied the jockey, heaving a fraction of a ton from the heavy windrow directly upon Sam's head. "Tread it down!"

Father Brighthopes, who had been some time sitting by the stack, to rest his old limbs, observed the threatening clouds, and came out again with his rake.

"You'd better go to the house, Father," said Mr. Royden, in a hurried tone. "I would not have you get wet and take cold for ten times the worth of the hay."

But the old man would not leave the field, which was now a busy and exciting scene. The storm seemed inevitable. Getting the hay into cocks that would shed rain, Chester and the men worked almost miraculously. It seemed as if they had husbanded their strength during the week for this crisis. They were not jaded and disheartened laborers, but bold and active workmen.

Meanwhile the new load swelled and loomed up prodigiously.

"When I give the word, James," cried Mr. Royden, "drive to the stack as straight as you can go. It must be topped off somehow, before it gets wet."

The clouds roared and wheeled in the sky. The lightnings were vivid and frequent. The sultry air grew rapidly cool, and there was a gale rising. A deep gloom had settled upon all the earth, coloring the scene of hurried labor with a tinge of awfulness, as if some dread event were impending.

A few heavy drops came hissing down upon the hay.

"Drive to the stack, James!" cried the farmer. "Go with what you have got."

"Take the rest of this win'row," said Mark; "hadn't we better? I can heave it up in a minute."

"Be quick, then; for we must secure the stack."

"If the shower will hold off ten minutes, I do believe the boys will have the rest of the hay safe in the cock," observed Father Brighthopes. "How they work!"

The shower did hold off wonderfully. Mark and Mr. Royden threw on the remainder of the windrow, making a large, unshapely load.

With a feeling of triumph, the farmer saw the horses start at a quick pace for the stack.

"The rain is coming!" said the jockey, glancing at a dark fringe of showers dropped from the thunder-clouds over the woods.

"It must come, then!" returned Mr. Royden. "We can pitch enough on the stack, though, to make it shed rain, I hope. The rest of the load we will run right into the barn."

The farmer sprang to a stone-heap, where he had left his coat, seized it, and threw it over the old clergyman's shoulders.

"Walk fast," cried he, "and you will get to the barn before the shower."

"A little rain won't hurt me, if I keep at work," replied Father Brighthopes. "I'll stay and help the boys."

Mr. Royden remonstrated in vain. A cry from Mark called his attention from the old man.

"That load will be off!"

The farmer uttered an exclamation of impatience. The great bulk of hay, thrown on in such haste, and trampled down without much regard to shape or order by the boys, was reeling over the side of the rick. James, encumbered with the reins, scrambled to the left as fast as he could, to keep the balance, calling upon Sam to do the same. But the latter was too busily engaged in tying a straw around a large horse-fly to heed the danger.

Mark and Mr. Royden ran to steady the load with their forks; but suddenly one of the wagon-wheels fell into a little hollow, and they had scarcely time to escape from the avalanche, as it plunged over them, and settled like a cloud upon the ground.

About a third of the load remained on the wagon, which fortunately did not upset; and James had skilfully managed, not only to stop the horses, but to avoid falling off, when the great bulk went over. Not so with Sam. Deep buried in the soft bed he had made, he was too late to save himself, when he discovered the reality of the danger. It was lucky he did not fall upon Mark's fork. As it was, he came down easily, with a very small portion of the load under him, and a very large portion sweeping down upon him. He was quite buried from sight; but in a moment his head appeared amid the billows of hay, and he floundered upon the firm ground.

Sam hardly knew what had taken place. At first he stared about him, looking at the wagon, and its contents on the ground; then he examined the straw, which he still held firmly clasped in his right hand.

"Thunder and broomsticks!" cried he, "if the darned old load an't off! and I've lost my horse-fly!"

Everybody else, except this thoughtless lover of mischief, who witnessed the disaster, expected to see Mr. Royden thrown into a violent passion. Father Brighthopes feared that his patience could not hold out. But the irritable farmer had not exercised his temper during the week to no purpose. He astonished everybody by his coolness.

"So much for being in a hurry," said he. "I ought not to have expected such a load to ride across the lot. Now let us be more deliberate, and do well what we do at all. There's no use of crying for an accident that cannot be helped."

He and Mark took hold, and threw on enough hay to bind what was left on the rick; and James drove on, just as a sharp shower was commencing. It grew very dark, and they topped off the stack in the rain. But the clouds acted very capriciously. After sifting a little water, they wheeled away to the south, where the rain could be seen streaking down over the woods. But there was no more of it on the meadow for some time; and when at last it began to come down in volleys, the stack was secured, the hay left in the field was thrown up in shapely cocks, the load which had fallen off was once more on the rick and going into the barn, the horses on a keen trot; and the laborers, shouldering their rakes, were hastening from the field.

Mr. Royden was never in better humor than when he found the old clergyman, somewhat heated, and perspiring freely, wrapped up in his great mantle, in the kitchen corner, prattling with George and Willie, who had just come home from school.

XXV.

A STREAM OF PEACE.

Since Monday, Hepsy had been quite unwell. She had lost her appetite, of late; and although she seemed more cheerfully resigned to her unhappy lot than ever before, it was easy to perceive that continually she had to struggle with some great pain.

Father Brighthopes talked with her a good deal during her illness, and his conversation was an unspeakable comfort to her suffering heart. He imparted a strange power of endurance to her weak nature; he lifted the dark veil from her future; he showed her, opening at the end of the rugged, steep and thorny path she traveled, a paradise of purity, odorous with orange groves and flowery fields, murmurous with falling fountains, and bright with the sunlight of the Saviour's love. There stood angels, too radiant for the weak eye of the doubting spirit to look upon, smiling to welcome her, beckoning with their snowy hands, and chanting psalms of praise to the Being who had given them this labor of love to do. And soon one among them, called Hope, with luminous wings, and a face like the morning star, came down to her, scattering roses and tufts of softest moss upon the jagged stones in her way, and bound a pair of shining sandals upon her bleeding feet. Love, an angel from the highest heavens descended to earth, where mortals behold her divine countenance but dimly, through the misty exhalations of their impure natures, twined her gentle arms about her neck, and kissed her, pointing upward to the infinite Father of all. Then Faith, a seraph serene and strong, took her by the hand, and bathed her pallid brow and fainting lips in the life-giving light of her own immortal eyes.

Such pictures the clear vision of the happy old man perceived, and discovered to her soul with a power which seemed like inspiration. Tears of joy stole down her sallow cheeks, as her mind followed his. And when he showed her another path, a little removed from the rocky steeps she climbed,--a circuitous, tempting road, shaded with trees, many of which bore fruits lovely to look upon, but all ashes to the taste, and bordered with flowers that faded continually at the touch; a long, easy way, peopled by the fairest ones she knew, who, stopping momently to eat of the fruits and pluck the flowers, journeyed--Oh, how slowly!--towards the heavenly fields; and when she saw that what seemed glittering gems under their feet were only flakes of mica, while the very rocks she trod upon, now worn a little, began to sparkle with native diamonds, burning beneath her sandals; she no longer repined at her destiny, but thanked God for the discipline which led her soul thus early up to Him.

Already Hepsy began to understand the substantial meaning of these pictures. It seemed that everybody was kinder to her than before. Chester never came to the house without sitting down, if only for a minute, by her side, and speaking some tender and brotherly word for her tremulous heart. But others were more changed than he; for in others there had been more need of change. Mrs. Royden seemed a different being. She had become singularly thoughtful and careful of the poor sick girl; and, for some reason, which nobody knew so well as the clergyman, I suppose, she appeared uncommonly even-tempered towards the children, reminding them, from time to time, that "poor Hepsy was sick, and they should do all they could to comfort her, and not disturb her with their noise."

On Saturday evening, when the rain lashed the clap-boards of the house, and streaked the window-panes, it was pleasant for all to look back upon the week which was past. The rolling ball of time runs smoothly in the golden grooves of peace. There had been so few jars and discords in the family, that even the children seemed conscious that they had entered upon a new era of life.

Owing to the gloom of the storm, the candles were lighted all of an hour earlier than usual, and Father Brighthopes, taking his place by Hepsy's side, who occupied the rocking-chair, with pillows, in the sitting-room, told his pleasant stories, with the family gathered about him, and the little ones on his knees. The beating of the rain was music to all hearts that night; and when the children went to bed, later than was their custom, their happy souls sank softly into slumber, lulled by the rain on the roof.

On the following morning, the sky was clear, and the sun shone freshly upon the wet earth. The storm broke away a little before dawn, and when the Sabbath threw open its gateway of gold a thousand birds came fluttering through to announce, in songs of joy, the appearance of the heavenly visitant. A gentle breeze shook the beaded rain from glistening boughs, and dried the drenched grasses, while shining mists stole out of swampy hollows, and faded in the sun.

Margaret Bowen, the wooden-legged shoemaker's daughter, who had worked very faithfully and cheerfully since Wednesday without hearing an unpleasant word from Mrs. Royden, wished to go home that morning; and after breakfast James carried her over in the wagon. Willie went too; and the little fellow, overjoyed at his mother's indulgence, took great delight in listening to the birds, in looking at the sparkling leaves and grass, and in watching the wheels as they cut through the puddles and furrowed the softened sand of the road.

All the family went to meeting, except Hepsy, Mrs. Royden and the baby. Sam rode behind on an extra seat,--a board placed across the wagon-box,--and fell off twice, without doing material injury to his person; after which trifling accidents he became cautious how he suffered his devotion to fun to send him wheeling over backwards when the horses started suddenly. Chester and James, who walked, witnessed one of his falls, as the wagon passed them on the road. They thought Sam's neck was broken, and ran to pick him up; but, after brushing the moist sand from his clothes, and getting him in the wagon again, they found that he was about as good as new.

In the afternoon, Mr. Kerchey took pains once more to invite Chester to ride with him; and, in no way discouraged by his painful deficiency in the brilliant graces of conversation manifested on a former occasion, readily consented to gratify the family with his presence at supper.

Mrs. Royden was pleased with Mr. Kerchey's condescension. Her fears that he might have taken offense at Sarah's freedom were happily dissipated; and, speaking with the latter aside, she told her, in a kind and motherly tone, that "she sincerely hoped she would treat their neighbor well."

Mr. Kerchey took them by surprise. He made some strikingly original and sensible remarks, without any of his ordinary hesitation. At the table he expressed some sentiments with regard to children which were quite refreshing, and his description of the storm on the previous day was rather picturesque.

But no shrewd observer, like Sarah, could fail to see that his language was studied and elaborate.

"He has got a little handful of speeches by heart," she whispered to Chester. "He will use them all up soon,--_then_ we'll see if he can talk!"

She was confirmed in her suspicions when, questioning some ideas he advanced, she found him utterly unable to answer her in the same easy strain as before. To excuse himself, he, with great difficulty, confessed that those thoughts had been forming themselves in his mind, and that he would have to consider her argument before making a definite reply.

"My--ah--words--you see--they are very slow," he observed. "I--frequently have to--ah--note down what I--intend to--express--on particular times--or occasions."

"Words are the husk, and thoughts are the corn, of our conversation," said Father Brighthopes, with an encouraging smile. "Too many persons bring only the husks, which they heap upon us in rather uncomfortable abundance."

"Yes, sir;--very--ah--true," returned Mr. Kerchey, gratefully. "I think I have--ah----"

Here he broke down, appearing utterly incapable of finding the words he wanted.

"You have considerably more of the corn than the husk," rejoined the old man; "an excellent and quite excusable fault."

"I think, if there is anything disagreeable, it is an everlasting talker," remarked Sarah, her bright eyes sparkling with fun.

Chester asked her if it was because she wished to usurp the conversation herself; upon which Mr. Kerchey managed to observe, in his very hardest way, that there were some persons of whose talk he could never tire.

He looked intently at Sarah,--just as if he meant her, Lizzie suggested, in a low tone, to James.

At this moment Willie diverted the conversation by crying out,

"Sam's pinching me!"

"Oh, I didn't!" said Sam.

"Why do you tell such a story?" demanded Mrs. Royden, with a slight degree of impatience. "I saw you pinch his arm."

"I was only brushing a fly off," replied Sam.

"He asked me how thick my sleeve was, and he took right hold of skin and all!" whined Willie, rubbing his arm.

Sam was reprimanded and Willie was consoled with rind from his father's plate.

XXVI.

THE RAINY DAY.

Monday was showery. Tuesday was fair, and on Wednesday there was a settled rain. It was anything but fine haying weather. The mowers got down a good deal of grass, but it was mostly left lying in the swath.

The Roydens took advantage of the dull time to visit at Deacon Dustan's, on Wednesday, with the old clergyman. There was quite a large company present, consisting of old and young people, among the choicest families in Mr. Corlis' society.

After dinner the rain "held up," and towards evening the elderly gentlemen of the party went out to walk. Deacon Dustan took great pleasure and no less pride in showing his guests the fairest portions of his goodly estate. Meanwhile he was too shrewd to neglect introducing the discussion of a subject which lay very near his heart.

The company were in excellent humor for a favorable consideration of the project of the new meeting-house; and Mr. Corlis became very eloquent on the subject.

"Come, Neighbor Royden," cried Deacon Dustan, "you are the only influential man in the society who has not expressed a decided opinion, one way or the other."

"It is because I haven't a decided opinion, I suppose," replied Mr. Royden, laughing. "You have heard the case, Father," he added, turning to the old clergyman: "what is your opinion?"

"I have hardly come to any conclusion yet," replied Father Brighthopes. "I have some ideas about such projects, however."

"Well, we would thank you to let us hear them, Father," rejoined Deacon Dustan. "They must be of value, from your long experience."

"Is this Job Bowen's house?" asked the old man; for they were walking leisurely past the shoemaker's residence.

"Yes; here lives patient Job, the wooden-legged philosopher," returned Deacon Dustan, good-humoredly. "What of him?"

"I was there, the other day, and promised to come again. I don't know when I shall have a better time. After I have said good-day to the family, I will tell you something about new meeting-houses. Will you go in too, Brother Corlis?"

Mr. Corlis could not refuse, although he would much rather have remained without.

"We will all look in at the door, if you please, gentlemen," said Deacon Dustan. "Job is a curiosity."

"I was just thinking that Job's family would have considered a dish from your generous table to-day a very pleasant curiosity," observed Father Brighthopes.

"Oh, Job is not quite a stranger to my dishes," returned the deacon, quickly. "I should be sorry to say that he was; and I should be sorry to have you think so."

With a smile of sunshine, the old man disclaimed the remotest idea of insinuating such a suspicion.

"A fat dish may be considered a curiosity to a poor man at any time, you know," he added, with tender humor. "Even a cold potato and a crust of bread are often great sources of delight, when accompanied with a kind word, and a cheerful, encouraging smile, from the charitable giver."

Deacon Dustan opened the door, without knocking.

"How are you to-day, Job?" he cried, with his great, strong, energetic lungs.

"Ah! my kind friends!" said Job, rubbing his hands, "I wish I could run to welcome you; but you will excuse me, and come in."

He spoke in his usual soft and subdued voice. He was sitting on his bench, with the window looking out upon the west behind him; and his bald pate and prominent ears were clearly defined, with a picturesque effect, upon the crimson background of the fiery sunset clouds.

"We're too many of us, Brother Job," said the old clergyman, with a smile of sympathetic pleasure: "perhaps you would not like to see us all in your little shop at once?"

"The more the better, bless you!" rejoined the soldier shoemaker, in a sort of glow; "only I'm sorry we haven't chairs enough for all of you."

"Never mind chairs," observed Father Brighthopes, taking Mrs. Bowen's hand, as she was arranging what available seats there were, with her customary melancholy air. "And how are you to-day, sister?"

"I'm pretty well for me," answered the poor woman, in her broken voice. "But we've been hard pushed for means this week; and, besides, since Margaret has been to Mr. Royden's, my other darter has been wo'se, and everything has come upon me."