Part 3

"Yes! You might be at another academy, occupying your time in making love to another silly, romantic girl!"

"Nobody will say," rejoined Chester, biting his lips, and speaking with forced calmness,--"my worst enemy cannot say,--that I have not improved my opportunities of study. I hope you will believe me, when I say I have always stood at the head of my classes."

Mr. Royden was considerably softened.

"Well, well!" said he, "I can make some allowance for your young blood. I will see what ought to be done. We will talk the matter over at another time."

"But while you do stay at home," added Mrs. Royden, who had remained silent for a length of time quite unusual with her, "you must take hold and help your father all you can. He has to hire a great deal, and sending you to school makes us feel the expense more than we should. James is not worth much, and Samuel, you know, is worse than nothing."

"Speaking of Sam, I wish he would show his face. It's getting very late," observed Mr. Royden, looking at the clock.

"The _old gentleman_ is always at the door when his name is spoken," said Mrs. Royden. "There he comes."

Sam was creeping into the kitchen as silently as possible.

"Young man!" cried Mr. Royden, opening the sitting-room door, "come in here."

"Yes, sir," said Sam, in a very feeble and weak tone of voice.

But he lingered a long time in the kitchen, and during the conversation, which was resumed, he was nearly forgotten. At length Mr. Royden thought he heard a strange noise, which sounded very much like a person crying.

"Do you hear, Samuel?" he cried. "Come in here, I say! What is the matter?"

"I'm--coming!" replied the boy, in a broken voice.

He made his appearance at the door in a piteous plight. He was covered with dirt, and with all his efforts he could not keep from crying.

"You have been flung from the horse!" suddenly exclaimed Chester. "Is that the trouble?"

"I haven't been flung from the horse, neither!" said Sam, doggedly.

"Did you leave him at the tavern?"

"Yes,--I _left him at the tavern_."

"What did the landlord say?"

"He didn't say nothing."

"Sam, you're lying!" cried Chester.

"True as I live--" began Sam.

"I know what the trouble is," said Mrs. Royden, who was very much provoked at seeing the boy's soiled clothes. "He has been fighting. And, if he has, it is your duty, father, to take him out in the shed, and give him as good a dressing as he ever had in his life."

Sam was on the point of confessing to the charge, as the best explanation of the distressed condition he was in, when the added threat exerted its natural influence on his decision.

"No, I han't fit with nobody," he said. "The boys in the village throw'd stones at me; but I didn't throw none back, nor sass 'em, nor do nothing but come as straight home as I could come."

"What is the matter, then?" demanded Mr. Royden, impatiently, taking him by the shoulder and shaking him. "Speak out! What is it?"

"Fell down," mumbled Sam.

"Fell down?"

"Yes, sir, and hurt my ankle, so't I can't walk," he added, beginning to blubber.

"How did you do that?"

Sam began, and detailed the most outrageous falsehood of which his daring genius was capable. He had met with the most dreadful mischances, by falling over a "big stun," which some villainous boys had rolled into the road, expressly to place his limbs in peril, as he passed in the dark.

"But how did the boys know how to lay the stone so exactly as to accomplish their purpose?" asked Chester, suspecting the untruth.

For a moment Sam was posed. But his genius did not desert him.

"Oh," said he, "I always walk jest in one track along there by Mr. Cobbett's, on the right-hand side, about a yard from the fence. I s'pose they knowed it, and so rolled the stone up there."

"You tell the most absurd stories in the world," replied Chester, indignantly. "Who do you expect is going to believe them? Now, let me tell you, if I find you have been lying about that horse, and if you have done him any mischief, I will tan you within an inch of your life!"

Sam hastened to declare that he had spoken gospel truth; at the same time feeling a dreadful twinge of conscience at the thought that, for aught he knew to the contrary, Frank might still be running, riderless, twenty miles away.

Mrs. Royden now usurped the conversation, to give him a severe scolding, in the midst of which he limped off to bed, to pass a sleepless, painful and unhappy night, with his bruised limbs, and in the fear of retribution, which was certain to follow, when his sin and lies should all be found out.

"I wish," he said to himself, fifty times, "I wish I had told about the horse; for, like as not, they wouldn't have licked me, and, if I _am_ to have a licking, I'd rather have it now, and done with, than think about it a week."

VI.

MORNING AT THE FARM.

On the following day Samuel's ankle was so badly swollen as to make a frightful appearance. Mrs. Royden had to call him three times before he could summon courage to get up; and when, threatened with being whipped out of bed, he finally obeyed her summons, he discovered, to his dismay, that the lame foot would not bear his weight.

With great difficulty Sam succeeded in dressing himself, after a fashion, and went hopping down stairs.

"You good-for-nothing, lazy fellow!" began Mrs. Royden, the moment he made his appearance, "you deserve to go without eating for a week. The boys were all up, an hour ago. What is the matter? What do you hobble along so, for?"

"Can't walk," muttered Sam, sulkily.

"_Can't walk!_"--in a mocking tone,--"what is the reason you cannot?"

"'Cause my ankle's hurt, where I fell down."

"There! now I suppose you'll be laid up a week!" exclaimed Mrs. Royden, with severe displeasure. "You are always getting into some difficulty. Let me look at your ankle."

Crying with pain, Sam dropped upon a chair, and pulled up the leg of his pantaloons.

When Mrs. Royden saw how bad the hurt was, her feelings began to soften; but such was her habit that it was impossible for her to refrain from up-braiding the little rogue, in her usual fault-finding tone.

"You never hurt that foot by falling over a stone, in this world!" said she. "Now, tell me the truth."

Sam was ready to take oath to the falsehood of the previous night; and Mrs. Royden, declaring that she never knew when to believe him, promised him a beautiful flogging, if it was afterwards discovered that he was telling an untruth. Meanwhile she had Hepsy bring the rocking-chair into the kitchen, where Sam was charged to "keep quiet, and not get into more mischief," during the preparation of some herbs, steeped in vinegar, for his ankle.

The vein of kindness visible under Mrs. Royden's habitual ill-temper affected him strangely. The consciousness of how little it was deserved added to his remorse. He was crying so with pain and unhappiness, that when Georgie and Willie came in from their morning play out-doors, they united in mocking him, and calling him a "big baby."

At this crisis the old clergyman entered. He was up and out at sunrise, and for the last half-hour he had been making the acquaintance of the two little boys, who were too cross to be seen the previous night.

"Excuse me," said he to Mrs. Royden, who looked dark at seeing him in the kitchen; "my little friends led me in this way."

"Oh, you are perfectly excusable," replied she; "but we look hardly fit to be seen, in here."

"Dear me," cried the old man, with one of his delightful smiles, "I am fond of all such familiar places. And you must not mind me, at any rate. I came to be one of the family, if you will let me."

Mrs. Royden replied that he was perfectly welcome; he did them an honor; but she was sure it would be much pleasanter for him to keep the privacy of his own room, where the children would not disturb him.

"There is a time for all things under the sun," answered the old man. "There is even a time to be a child with children. But what have we here? A sprained ankle?"

"Yes, sir," murmured Sam.

"Ah! it is a bad sprain," rejoined the clergyman, in a tone of sympathy. "How did it happen?" sitting down by Samuel, and taking Georgie and Willie on his knees.

Sam mumbled over the old story about falling over a stone.

"And you were mocking him?" said the old man, patting Willie's cheek.

"He cries," replied Willie, grinning.

"And don't you think you would cry, if you had hurt your foot as he has?"

The boy shook his head, and declared stoutly that he was sure he would not cry. But he, as well as Georgie, began actually to shed tears of sympathy, when their new friend made them look at the sprained ankle, and told them how painful it must be.

They were not heartless children; their better feelings only required to be drawn out; and from that time, instead of laughing at Sam, they appeared ready to do almost anything they thought would please him.

"I haven't had such an appetite in months," said the clergyman, as he sat down at the breakfast-table with the family.

And his happy face shed a pleasant sunshine on all around. Mr. Royden invited him to ask a blessing on the food; and, in a fervent tone, and an earnest, simple manner, he lifted up his heart in thankfulness to the great Giver.

As Mrs. Royden poured the coffee, she appeared to think it necessary to make some apologies. They did not often use that beverage in her family, she said, and she was not skilled in its preparation.

"I am afraid it is not very clear," she added.

"No," said the clergyman, "it is not clear enough for me. The only drink that is clear enough for me"--holding up a glass of pure cold water--"is this."

"But you will try a cup of coffee? Or a cup of tea, at least?"

"I never use either, except when I need some such restorative. Last night a fine cup of tea was a blessing. This morning I require nothing of the kind."

"But you cannot make out a breakfast on our plain fare, without something to drink besides water."

The old man smiled serenely.

"Your fare cannot be too plain for me. I often breakfast luxuriously on a slice of brown bread and a couple of apples."

"Brown bread and apples!" exclaimed Mrs. Royden, in surprise. "Who ever heard of apples for breakfast?"

"I never feel so well as when I make them a large proportion of my food," replied the clergyman. "People commit a great error when they use fruits only as luxuries. They are our most simple, natural and healthful food."

"You have never worked on a farm, I see," observed Mr. Royden.

"I understand you,"--and the old man, perhaps to illustrate his liberal views, ate a piece of fried bacon with evident relish. "Different natures and different conditions of men certainly demand different systems of diets. If a man has animal strength to support, let him use animal food. But meat is not the best stimulus to the brain. With regard to vegetables, my experience teaches that they are beautifully adapted to our habits of life. Let the man who digs beneath the soil consume the food he finds there. But I will pluck the grape or the peach as I walk, and, eating, find myself refreshed."

"That is a rather poetical thought," remarked Chester. "But I doubt if it be sound philosophy."

"Oh, I ask no one to accept any theory of my own," answered the old man, benignly. "If I talk reason, consider my words; if not,"--smiling significantly, with an expressive gesture,--"let the wind have them."

"But I think your ideas very interesting," said Sarah. "What do you think of bread?"

"It is the _staff of life_. The lower vegetable productions are suited to the grosser natures of men. Those brought forth in the sunlight are more suitable to finer organizations. I place grains as much higher than roots, on a philosophical scale, as the ear of corn is higher than the potato, in a literal sense. Therefore, as grain grows midway between vegetables and fruits, it appears to be wisely designed as the great staple of food. But the nearer heaven the more spiritual. If I am to compose a sermon, let me make a dinner of nuts that have ripened in the broad sunlight, of apples that grow on the highest boughs of the orchard, and of grapes that are found sweetest on the tops of the vines."

"Very beautiful in theory," said Chester.

"When you have studied the subject, perhaps you will find some grains of truth in the chaff," replied the clergyman, with a genial smile.

"In the first place," rejoined Chester, with the confidence of a man who has a powerful argument to advance, "speaking of nuts,--let us look at the chestnut. You will everywhere find that the tallest trees produce the poorest nuts."

"I grant it."

"Then how does your theory hold?"

Mr. Rensford answered the young man's triumphant look with a mild expression of countenance, which showed a spirit equally happy in teaching or in being taught.

"I think," said he, "your tall chestnut-tree is found in forests?"

"Yes, sir; and the spreading chestnut, or the second growth, that springs up and comes to maturity in cleared fields, is found standing alone."

"It strikes me, then, that the last is _cultivated_. You may expect better nuts from it than from the savage tree. And there is good reason why it should not be of such majestic stature. Its body has room to expand. It is not crowded in the selfish society of the woods; and, to put forth its fruits in the sunlight, it is not obliged to struggle above the heads of emulous companions."

"But chestnuts are very unhealthy," said Mrs. Royden, to the relief of Chester, who was at a loss how to reply.

"They should not be unhealthy. If we had not abused our digestive organs, and destroyed our teeth by injurious habits, we would suffer no inconvenience from a few handfuls of chestnuts. As it is, masticate them well, and use them as food,--and not as luxuries, after the gastric juices are exhausted by a hearty dinner,--and I doubt if they would do much harm."

VII.

CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE.

"Dear me!" cried Mrs. Royden, as the clergyman declined tasting the pie Hepsy brought on as a dessert, "you haven't eaten anything at all! You'd better try a small piece?"

The old man thanked her kindly, adding that he had eaten very heartily.

"I am afraid you will not be able to get through the forenoon," she replied.

"Nay, don't tempt me," he said playfully, as she insisted on the pie. "My constitution was never strong; and, with my sedentary habits, I should never have reached the age of seventy-two, if I had not early learned to control my appetites. It is better to go hungry from a loaded table, than run the risk of an indigestion."

"Are you _seventy-two_?" asked Mr. Royden, in a sad tone.

"The twelfth day of October next is my seventy-second birthday," replied the old man, cheerfully. "Don't you think I have lasted pretty well?"

"Is it possible that you are twenty-eight years older than I?" exclaimed the other.

"Do I not look as old?"

"When your countenance is in repose, perhaps you do; but when you talk,--why, you don't look over fifty-five, if you do that."

"I have observed it," said Sarah. "When you speak your soul shines through your face."

"And the soul is always young. God be praised for that!" replied Mr. Rensford, with a happy smile on his lips, and a tear of thankfulness in his eye. "God be praised for that!"

"But the souls of most men begin to wither the day they enter the world," remarked Chester, bitterly. "Perhaps, in your sphere of action, you have avoided the cares of life,--the turmoil and jar of the noisy, selfish world."

"Heaven has been merciful to me," said the old man, softly. "Yet my years have been years of labor; and of sorrow I have seen no little. Persecution has not always kept aloof from my door."

"Oh, few men have had so much to go through!" spoke up Mr. Royden, in a tone of sympathy. "The wonder is, how you have kept your brow so free from wrinkles, and your spirit so clear from clouds."

"When the frosts have stolen upon me, when the cold winds have blown," replied Mr. Rensford, in a tone so touching that it was felt by every one present, "I have prayed Heaven to keep the leaves of my heart green, and the flowers of my soul fresh and fragrant. The sunlight of love was showered upon me in return. I managed to forget my petty trials, in working for my poor, unhappy brethren. My wife went to heaven before me; my child followed her, and I was left at one time all alone, it seemed. But something within me said, 'They whom thou hast loved are in bliss; repine not therefore, but do thy work here with a cheerful spirit, and be thankful for all God's mercies.'"

"I understand now how you got the familiar name I have heard you called by," said Mr. Royden, with emotion.

"Yes,"--and the old man's fine countenance glowed with gratitude,--"it has pleased my friends to give me an appellation which is the only thing in the world I am proud of,--_Father Brighthopes_. Is it possible," he added, with tears in his eyes, "that I have deserved such a title? Has my work been done so cheerfully, has my faith been so manifest in my life, that men have crowned me with this comforting assurance that my prayers for grace have been answered?"

"Then you would be pleased if we called you by this name?"

"You will make me happy by giving me the honorable title. No other, in the power of kings to bestow, could tempt me to part with it. As long as you find me sincere in my faith and conduct, call me _Father Brighthopes_. When I turn to the dark side of life, and waste my breath in complaining of the clouds, instead of rejoicing in the sunshine, then disgrace me by taking away my title."

"I wish more of us had your disposition," said Mr. Royden, with a sad shake of the head.

"There is no disposition so easy, and which goes so smoothly through the world," replied the old man, smiling.

Mr. Royden felt the force of the remark, but, being a man of exceedingly fine nerves, he did not think it would be possible for him to break up his habit of fretfulness, in the midst of all the annoyances which strewed his daily path with thorns. He said as much to his aged friend.

"Do you never stop to consider the utter insignificance of all those little trials, compared with the immortal destiny of man?" replied Father Brighthopes. "I remember when a blot of ink on a page I had written over would completely upset my temper. That was the labor of copying the spoiled manuscript? What are all the trivial accidents of life? What even is the loss of property? Think of eternity, and answer. Afflictions discipline us. Sorrows purify the soul. Once an insulting word would throw me into a violent passion; but to-day I will do what I think right; and smile calmly at persecution."

The old man's philosophy had evidently made an impression. Mr. Royden went about his work in a more calm and self-supported manner than was his wont; and the children had never known their mother in a better humor, at that time of day, than when directing the household affairs, after breakfast.

Lizzie did not fail to remind Father Brighthopes of the book he promised her; and, in opening his trunks, he found not only what she wanted, but volumes to suit all tastes, from Sarah's down to Georgie's, and even a little picture-book for Willie. He also put his hand on something which he thought would interest Sam, laid up with his lame ankle; and selected one of the most attractive books in his possession to cheer the heart of Hepsy.

By this time the children were growing dangerously attached to him. Willie wanted to sit on his knee all the time, and Georgie was unwilling to go and rock the baby, which was crying in the sitting-room, unless the clergyman went out there too.

But Father Brighthopes had a peculiar faculty of governing young people. With a few kind words, and a promise of following soon, he despatched Georgie to work at the cradle, with a good heart; and, telling Lizzie and Willie that he wished to be alone a little while, he sent them away, well contented with the books and kisses he gave them.

Mrs. Royden's household affairs progressed unusually well that morning, and she was remarkably pleasant, until Sam, who could not keep out of mischief, even with his sprained ankle to take care of, occasioned a slight disaster. He had made a lasso of a whip-lash to throw over the children's heads when they should pass through the kitchen, and commenced the exercise of his skill upon the unfortunate Hepsy. Every time she passed he would cast the loop at her neck, but entirely without success in his experiments; and at length the bright idea occurred to him to make an attempt upon her foot. Spreading out the lasso in her way, he pulled up suddenly as she walked over it, and, after several efforts, perseverance resulted in a capture. The loop caught Hepsy's toe.

Sam had not reckoned on the disastrous consequence of such a seizure. The unsuspecting victim was stepping very quick, and the impediment of the whip-lash threw her head-foremost to the floor. She was not much hurt, but an earthen dish she was carrying was shattered to pieces. Frightened at the catastrophe, Sam hastened to undo the loop; but Mrs. Royden was on the spot before he had put the fatal evidence against him out of his hand.

"You careless creature!" she exclaimed, in a sharp key, regarding Hepsy with contracted features, "can't you walk across the floor without falling down? If you can't----"

"Samuel tripped me," murmured Hepsy, gathering up the fragments of the dish.

"O, I didn't!" cried Sam, putting up his elbows as Mrs. Royden flew to box his ears.

"What are you doing with that lash?" she demanded, after two or three vain attempts to get in a blow.

"Nothing; only, it was lying on the floor, and I went to pick it up just as Hepsy was going along; and, you see," stammered Sam, "she ketched her foot and fell down."

"Give me the lash!" said Mrs. Royden, angrily.

"I won't have it out any more!" and Sam put it in his pocket.

"Give it to me, I say!"

"I don't wan't ter; you'll hit me with it."

Mrs. Royden could not bear to be argued with on such occasions. She made a seizure of one of Sam's ears, and pulled it until he screamed with pain.

"There!" said she, "will you mind next time, when I speak?"

"Yes. I don't want the old thing!" and Sam threw the contested property across the room, under the sink.

He knew, by the flash of Mrs. Royden's eye, as she hastened to grasp it, that danger was impending; and, starting from his chair with surprising agility, he hopped out doors. But his lame ankle incapacitated him to endure a long chase. Mrs. Royden pursued into the yard, and, coming up with him, laid the lash soundly upon his head and shoulders, until he keeled over on his back, and, holding his lame foot in the air, pleaded for mercy. There, as she continued to beat him, he caught hold of the lash and pulled it away from her; upon which she returned in her worst humor, to the kitchen.

It was sad to see James escape to the barn when he saw the storm, and Sarah make an errand up stairs.

Poor Hepsy went silently and industriously to work to avoid reproofs, while her blue eyes filled with sorrowful tears. Georgie got his ears boxed for some slight offence, and his crying awoke the baby, which he had but just rocked to sleep.

At this crisis, Mrs. Royden called Lizzie; but Lizzie dreaded her presence, and hid in the garden, with the book Father Brighthopes had given her; and she made Willie lie down behind the currant-bushes and look at the pictures in his primer, while she read.

Mrs. Royden was casting around for some one besides the weak Hepsy to vent her ill-humor upon, when Chester made his appearance.

"I wish you would take that baby, Chester, and get it still! You must not be afraid to take hold and help while you stay at home. What have you got on those pantaloons for, this busy morning? Go and put on an old pair. You needn't think you are to walk about dressed up every day."