Chapter XXV: A Stream of Peace (5)

The strong hand of the jockey seized the old man's shoulder. The latter seemed but a frail child in his grasp; but still he did not shrink, nor loose his hold of the club. To Chester and his father, who sprang to rescue him, he said,

"Do not touch him. I am not afraid. He dare not hurt me. _I am in the hands of my God._"

Mark's fist was raised to strike.

"I _shall_ tear you to pieces!" he articulated, hoarse with rage.

"The Lord pity you! The Lord forgive you, for raising your hand against his servant!" exclaimed Father Brighthopes, with tears coursing down his pale cheeks. "Mark Wheeler, you cannot hurt me,--not if you kill me. But _your own soul_ is in your grasp. My friend, I love you, I pray for you! You cannot make me angry. I will be a Christian towards you. I _will_ pray for you! You cannot prevent that. Strike the old man to the earth, and his last words shall be a prayer for your darkened soul!"

Mark's clenched hand fell to his side; but with the other he still held the clergyman's shoulder, looking full in his face.

"My friend," said the old man, "you know I have but done my duty. I would not harm you, nor see you harmed. It is to defend you against yourself that I hold the club from you. You may, indeed, hurt my body, which is old, and not worth much, but you will hurt your own soul a thousand, thousand times more. Oh, my God!" prayed the old man, raising his streaming eyes to heaven, "have mercy upon this my poor erring brother!"

Mark's hand dropped from the old man's shoulder. The flame in his eyes began to flicker. His lips quivered, and his face became pale. Father Brighthopes continued to pour out the overflowing waters of his heart, to quench the fire of passion. At length Mark's eyes fell, and he staggered backward. Then the old man took his hand, and put the club into it.

"Our minute is up. Here is the weapon," said he. "Use it as you will."

The club dropped upon the ground.

"Take it, and kill me with it!" muttered Mark. "I am not fit to live."

He sat down upon an overturned trough, and covered his face with his hands, gnashing his teeth.

"Are you fit to die?" asked the old man, sitting down by his side. "Would you enter the tomb through a boiling gulf of passion?"

Mark started up.

"Ches is to blame!" he said, with an oath. "He provoked me, when I was mad from losing my colt's eye."

"Be calm, my friend. Sit down," replied the clergyman. "If Chester has done wrong, he will acknowledge it."

"I spoke what I thought just and true," added the young man, promptly.

"Why just and true?" echoed Mark, his passion blazing up again.

"You will be angry, if I tell you."

"No, I won't."

"Then I will speak plainly. I said you deserved to lose the beauty and value of your colt. Perhaps I was wrong. But I did not believe his eye was hurt by any such accident as you described."

"How then?" muttered the jockey.

"It seemed to me," answered Chester, folding his arms, "you got mad training him, and _knocked his eye out_."

"Do you mean that?"

"Yes. I saw marks on his head, where you had been whipping him."

"I acknowledge I whipped him," said Mark. "But----"

"Come, come, boys!" cried Mr. Royden, "drop the subject. You, Chester, are to blame; for, even though your suspicion was correct, you had no right to speak it. I am mortified beyond measure to think your folly has fallen upon the head of our good old friend."

"Father Brighthopes, what shall I say to express my sorrow and shame for what has taken place?" asked Chester, with deep humility.

"Promise me that you will never again speak unkindly to one who has erred," answered the clergyman, with a sad smile, pressing his hand. "It was not well that you should use the cutting tone in which you hinted your suspicion."

"I know it," said Chester, frankly. "Mark, I hope you cherish no ill feeling. Here is my hand, if you will take it."

Mark had covered his face again; he did not look up nor move.

"I don't know but I was wrong in my thoughts," proceeded the young man. "I hope I was. But my blood boils when I see cruelty to animals, and I have not yet learned self-control."

"Which you _must_ learn," added Father Brighthopes, with tender earnestness.

"I am sorry, Mark, I can't do anything for your colt," observed Mr. Royden, who, to change the disagreeable topic, had caught the animal, and led him by the halter to the spot where the jockey was sitting. "I wish I could."

"I don't deserve it," muttered the other, with his head down. "It is good enough for me. Ches was right. _I knocked that eye out with the butt of my whip._"

He gnashed his teeth again, and began to tear his hair with remorse.

Father Brighthopes whispered to Chester and his father, who presently went away together, leaving him alone with Mark. They returned to the hay-field. It was noon before they saw the clergyman again. He arrived home from talking with Mark just as the mowers were washing their hot faces at the well, in preparation for dinner.

And still Mark Wheeler sat upon the trough, with his face in his hands; no longer gnashing his teeth and tearing his hair, but sobbing as only strong men sob.

XXIII.

SATURDAY AFTERNOON.

The fine weather continued during the week. Literally Mr. Royden and his men "made hay while the sun shone." Saturday came, and they were astonished at what was done.

"I have tried my new system pretty thoroughly," said the farmer to his aged guest, that morning. "I have taken things in an easy way, decidedly, this week. Work has gone ahead amazingly. The river was deep, but it ran smoothly. The hay-field has been like a play-ground to all of us."

But the crisis was to come. Saturday was the great "drawing" day. Mr. Royden was a cautious man; doubting whether the fine weather would continue until Monday, he was anxious to see every cock of hay in the stack, or under shelter, before night. He had laid his plans with great foresight, and would have accomplished them beautifully, had not a sudden change of weather in the afternoon occurred, to throw his affairs into confusion.

When Father Brighthopes mounted the hay-rick, to ride to the field with the laborers, after their brief nooning, he remarked that he "smelt a storm brewing."

"Let it come," said the farmer. "We will try to be prepared for it."

The air was close and sultry. A few dark western clouds showed their sullen foreheads over the horizon's rim, like grim giants meditating battle. There appeared angry commotions among them now and then, and some low growls of thunder came to the ear.

But overhead the yellow sky was clear. In the east, in the north, in the south, not even a white fleece was to be seen.

"It may rain by evening," said the farmer, gently touching the flanks of the horses with the point of a pitchfork. "We have got our stint, boys; it will be no harm if we have it done when the sun is an hour high."

The horses threw themselves into a lazy trot. The wagon rattled down the lane, and went jolting over the rough ground at the entrance of the meadow. The men jumped out and took their rakes, followed by Chester; while Mr. Royden and James resumed their work of drawing.

The farmer pitched up the cocks, James shaped the load, and the clergyman "raked after," cheerful and spry as any of them. The smell of the hay-field had a fascination for the old man. He felt new strength since he had breathed its healthful odors. His cheek had browned, and he had learned to eat meat with the men.

Suddenly one of the great clouds shook himself, slowly reared his mighty form, and put his shoulder up against the sun. A cooling shadow swept across the meadow. At the same time he hurled a swift thunder-bolt, and growled in deep and wrathful tones.

"It is going to rain, father," cried James, from the top of the load.

"Drive on," answered the farmer, pitching on the last of a large hay-cock.

Father Brighthopes scratched up the few remaining wisps with his rake, and followed along the wagon-track.

While Mr. Royden and James were transferring the load from the rick to the growing stack in the midst of the meadow, the old man lay upon the grass in the shade to rest. He heard a footstep, and, looking up, saw Mark Wheeler approaching.

"Do you think it is going to rain?" asked the jockey, talking up to Mr. Royden.

"I should not be surprised if we had a shower this evening," replied the farmer, heaving up a heavy forkful to James. "I don't think those clouds will touch us yet a while."

"I can help you just as well as not, if you think there is any danger," rejoined Mark.

"Very well," said Mr. Royden. "It's always safe to be beforehand. If you're a mind to take hold, and help the boys get the hay that's down into shape, I'll do as much for you, some time."

"I owe you work, I believe," replied Mark, throwing off his vest. "Are you going to pitch on to the load out of the win'row?"

"Yes; unless there comes up a shower. If it looks like it, you'll have to get the hay into cocks the quickest way you can."

Mark found a rake by the stack; but still he lingered. He had not seen the clergyman since Monday, and he appeared desirous, yet somewhat ashamed, to speak with him.

"How do you do to-day, friend Mark?" Father Brighthopes said, reading his mind.

The jockey came up to him, where he lay under the stack, and gave him his hand.

"I am well, I thank you," he replied, in a low tone. "I was afraid to speak to you."

"Afraid!"

"Yes, Father. I know you must despise me and hate me."

"No, my son; you misjudge me," answered the old man, with a kindly smile, sitting up, and pressing Mark's hand, as the latter stooped down to him. "On the contrary I am drawn toward you, Mark. There is much in you to love; only overcome these besetting faults, which are your worst enemies."

"I shall try--thank you,"--Mark's voice quivered with emotion. "I haven't forgot what you said to me t'other day. I shall not forget it."

"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."

"Yes; she's had a rather hard time on 't," put in Job, mildly, and with a faint smile. "But she does remarkable, that woman does, my friends--remarkable! She means to make the best of everything."

"He! he! he!" laughed the grandmother, starting up in the corner, and drawing the blanket around her. "That was a chicken-pie not to be ashamed of," she mumbled, in shrill tones, between her toothless gums. "I han't tasted nothing like it these forty year. Our company was wet and hungry enough when they got there; and you'd better believe that 'ere pie had a relish!"

"Bygones, bygones!" whispered Job, touching his forehead, with a tender glance at the old woman. "You mustn't mind her, my friends: we never do. She is a nice old lady, but all out of date, and very deaf."

"How does Margaret get along?" asked Mrs. Bowen, in her most ghastly tone.

"Oh, very well indeed. She is the best girl we ever had, by all odds," replied Mr. Royden.

"I don't know but I shall have to have her come home for a few days," proceeded the other. "I shall, if my other darter continues so sick. I shall want her help more than the money, though we need that bad enough, Lord knows. We're all out of flour; and, if it wan't for the potatoes you sent over Sunday morning, I don't know what we should do."

"Oh, we shall do very well, my good wife!" cried Job, cheerily. "The Lord won't forget us! He is our friend: he is on our side, he is. It'll all be right in the end--glory be to God for that thought!"

"And for every suffering you will have your reward, my noble Christian brother," exclaimed Father Brighthopes, with kindling enthusiasm. "Believe it: you will come out of the fire all the purer and brighter for the ordeal."

Job squeezed a tear from his eye, and, looking up with a countenance full of emotion, as the red light from the western clouds fell upon it, took a book from the bench by his side.

"I don't know how I shall thank you for all the comfort I owe you," he said, with a tearful smile. "What you tell me is wonderful consoling for me to think about here at work, and to repeat over to my good woman, when she has her trials. But I take it as kind as anything your sending me the books by Margaret. I don't have much chance to read, and they will last me a good while: the better for me, I s'pose. You see, I read a sentence, then I hammer away at my work, thinking it over and over, and explaining it to my good woman: it does her good when she's having her bad spells."

"Which of the books do you like best?" asked the clergyman.

"The story of the Pilgrim's Progress is a glorious thing for a lonesome and fainting traveler on the same road, like me!" exclaimed Job. "But I had read that before, and got it pretty well by heart. Now, this _Barnes' Notes_ interests me as much as anything; there was so many things in the Testament I wanted to have explained."

"I am delighted to think you are comforted by any of the books," said the old clergyman, warmly.

"Oh, I get a world of good out of this one, especially. Wife sometimes tells me 't an't no use to read it; but," said Job, with a gleaming intelligence in his queer face, as the sunset glow deepened upon it, "what do you think I tell her?"

Father Brighthopes knew some pleasant sally was coming, and encouraged him to proceed.

"I tell her," said Job, quietly chuckling, "the study of _Barnes_ makes my faith _stable_."

This little jest appealed to the sympathies of the farmers, and they honored it with a laugh. Job was radiant with joy.

"I wish the _Notes_ was condensed into half the number of volumes," he proceeded, under this encouragement. "If I had time to read them, the more the better. But I find them like the waters of a deep stream."

Father Brighthopes saw a joke in Job's twinkling eyes, and asked him to explain the comparison.

"Ha! ha!" Job laughed, in spite of himself. "It's a little conundrum I made to amuse my good woman, in one of her bad turns. Why are Barnes' Notes like the waters of a deep stream? _Answer_,--because one would find them easier to get _over_, if they were a-_bridged_."

The company laughed again; and the clergyman thought it best that they should take leave at the moment when Job was elated with his brilliant success.

"It was in the year 'seventeen," spoke up the grandmother, rousing from her dreams, as they were going away; "I remember it as well as if 'twas yesterday."

"Poor woman!" muttered Job, with feeling, "I've no doubt but she remembers it a great deal better, whatever it is."

"Come again, and I'll tell ye all about it," proceeded the old lady, with a shrill laugh. "I actually gi'n that creatur' three pecks of inions and a pan of dried apples; and she never said so much as _thank'e_, to this day! I might have expected it, though; for she was a Dudley on her mother's side, and everybody knowed how mean that race of Dudleys always was, partic'larly the women folks. Airly in March, in the year 'seventeen."

She relapsed again into her dreams; Mrs. Bowen bid the visitors a hoarse and melancholy _good-evening_; and Job stumped to the door on his wooden leg to see them off.

XXVII.

"OLD FOLKS" AND "YOUNG FOLKS."

"Now, then, about the new meeting-house," remarked Father Brighthopes, in a spirited tone, carrying his hat in his hand.

The sun was down, the fiery glow was fading from the clouds, and, as the dying light fell upon his large pale forehead and thin white locks of hair, tinging them faintly with gold, Mr. Corlis thought he had never seen so striking a picture of beautiful and venerable age.

"We hear you," said Deacon Dustan.

"Well," proceeded the old man, "my notion is simply this: if your society can afford to build a new meeting-house, build it, by all means."

"There's wisdom for you!" cried the deacon, triumphantly. "My own ideas simplified and expressed in three words, _If we can afford to build_; and who will say we cannot afford so much?"

"What is it, to afford?" asked Mr. Royden, perplexed by the old clergyman's decision.

"Have you the means to spare for the purpose?" suggested Mr. Corlis.

"Ay, that is the question," said Father Brighthopes. "I don't know but you have. I hope you have. But you must consider that to do this thing for your own glory, and not in the service of our Saviour, will be other than acceptable in his sight."

"We trust to do all things, connected with the church, to the praise and glory of God," returned Mr. Corlis.

"Then your labors will bring their reward. But there are still important considerations claiming our attention. I think the Lord is better pleased with other things than pretty meeting-houses. They who build up his CHURCH find more favor in his sight than the mere constructors of elegant place of worship."

"But, to build up the church, we must commence with the frame-work to shelter it," observed Deacon Dustan; "at least, it appears so to me."

"The true church of Christ is in our own hearts," returned the old man, with a gentle smile.

Deacon Dustan's mind was of too material a cast fully to appreciate this truth; so he only nodded mechanically, and said,

"In one sense, certainly."

"To build that up, should be our first care. That we can do without carpenter's tools, plank or plaster. _Righteousness_ is the great building material, and _Love_ is the head workman. Christ has not said, 'Rear me stately edifices, and make my houses pleasing unto me with velvet, gilding and paint.' But he has told his followers to feed the hungry, to clothe the naked, to visit the afflicted and comfort them, to lift up the downt-rodden. My brethren," said the old man, "this do as long as ye have any in poverty and distress among you; then, I say, if you can _afford_ it, build a meeting-house of gold, and the Lord will be pleased with the work."

The rebuke, although uttered in all kindness and love, came home, with overwhelming force, to all hearts at that time, when they had just witnessed the squalor and rags of a faithful Christian brother in their very midst. Mr. Corlis, who was expected to reply, was struck speechless.

"There is a great deal of truth in what you say," observed Deacon Dustan, after a painful silence. "Some of it applies to us, without doubt; but not so much as you suppose. In our own society, you will not find any one left to suffer poverty. If we have ever neglected poor Job Bowen,--and, I confess, I, for one, have not been so thoughtful of him as I should be, even if he were the vilest sinner in the world,--our excuse is, that he differs from our persuasion. He is not one of our brethren."

"<sc>Christ</sc> knows not one sect from another, it is the _heart_ he judges," said the old man. "'_Whoever_ doeth the will of my Father, the same is my brother.' For my part, I never thought to inquire into the creed of our poor Christian friend, Job Bowen. It is enough for me to know that his Saviour is my Saviour."

Nobody made answer; and, after a pause, Father Brighthopes added,

"Ah! how sweetly the evening comes on! Look, there is the evening star in the soft blue sky! You will have fine weather for haying to-morrow."

The subject of the new meeting-house was not renewed.

By way of contrast with the foregoing scenes, let us now turn to others, of a different nature.

Scarcely had Deacon Dustan and the elder portion of his gentlemen guests set out on their walk, when Mr. Benjamin Smith, a brother of our old acquaintance, Josephine, drove up to the door with a load of saddles.

Benjamin had been to collect them around the neighborhood. The young people were going to ride. Equestrian exercises had been hinted at by Mr. Kerchey, whose fine, spirited horses were at the disposal of the party, and the girls had caught eagerly at the idea.

Mr. Kerchey was not used to the saddle; but Sarah Royden was, and that was enough for him to know. He himself was a little afraid of mounting a mettled horse; but, since she was so fond of the recreation, he had no desire to consult his own feelings in the matter.

"I--I wish you would tell me how--ah--these girths go," he said to Chester, after laboring hard for a quarter of an hour saddling his handsomest horse for Sarah. "I wish--one of my--ah--hired men was here--so that I--ah--would not have to--would not be obliged to trouble you."

"No trouble at all," cried Chester, who, meanwhile, had saddled four horses in front of Deacon Dustan's barn.

He stepped to the stable to see what Mr. Kerchey was about, and, at a glance, burst into a roar of laughter. The amateur farmer had put on the side-saddle, not exactly bottom upwards, but turned square around; and he was trying to buckle the girths upon the stirrup-strap.

"I think Sarah would hesitate to ride with the saddle just in this position," said Chester, checking his merriment.

He skilfully made the required change, and buckled the girths with such rapidity as struck Mr. Kerchey with amazement, and quite discouraged him from ever touching a side-saddle again.

"You see--I--I--I am not--ah--accustomed to this sort of--of business," he stammered, coloring very red.

A dozen horses were saddled and led to the door. In the meantime the girls had prepared themselves for the sport.

"Oh!" screamed Miss Josephine Smith, as the gallant Chester helped her mount from the block, "my nervth are tho delicate!"

How different Sarah! She sat Mr. Kerchey's handsome horse like a queen, holding her head proudly, as he playfully pranced and reared.

"I--I--hope--I hope there is no--ah--danger?" articulated the amateur farmer, as he reluctantly loosed his hold of the bridle.

Sarah laughed merrily, and boldly struck the animal with her whip. It made Mr. Kerchey gasp to see him bound and plunge. But she kept her balance miraculously.

After seeing that every girth was well fastened, and every fair rider safely mounted, Chester leaped into his own saddle from the turf, without touching foot to stirrup. But he dismounted again immediately, smothering his laughter as well as he could.

All the gentlemen were mounted, except Mr. Kerchey.

His horse, excited by seeing his mate, governed by Sarah, dance about the yard, would not stand still an instant, or come up to the block. Harry Dustan, laughing at his distress, had cantered gayly away with Miss Sedley, the "school-ma'am." Only Chester was thoughtful enough to go to Mr. Kerchey's relief.

The latter, heated, agitated, and wofully perplexed, was beginning to see that riding horseback was a far more serious affair than he had imagined. He witnessed the bold riding of his neighbors with dismay. Galloping was to him a perfect mystery. His courage and ambition had never gone beyond a gentle trot. The mere thought of dashing off side by side with Sarah made him dizzy.

"Can't you mount?" asked Chester, soberly, considering the circumstances.

"No--I--that is--perhaps--on the whole--I'd better not--ah--attempt it."

"Oh, that won't do! What will the girls say?"

"But, you see--it is all--ah--new to me," stammered Mr. Kerchey.

"You'll get into the way of it at once," replied Chester, in an encouraging tone. "It's as easy as running down hill, or running up--an account. Now,"--he wheeled the horse to the block,--"put your leg over the saddle. No! the other leg,--your right one,--unless you want to ride backwards."

XXVIII.

MR. KERCHEY'S DARING EXPLOIT.

After considerable trouble, Mr. Kerchey was mounted, with his feet thrust into the stirrups up to the ankles.

Chester, perceiving the smiling faces of the old ladies at the windows and at the door, watching the performance, was so convulsed with mirth that he could with difficulty get once more into the saddle. But the girls had now all galloped up the road, and, with no inducement to make a display of agility and strength, he braced his toe in the stirrup, and leisurely mounted.

Mr. Kerchey was a little ahead of him, making too ludicrous an appearance to be easily described. He looked like an animated bag of flour, Chester said, awkwardly balanced, jolting painfully, and seeming momently ready to tumble off.

"Oh, you do bravely!" cried the young man, dashing past him, on a smart gallop.

Mr. Kerchey groaned, and grasped the saddle with his left hand, desperately, resolved to ride faster.

The party had halted a little way up the road, and Chester made haste to send Sarah back to keep Mr. Kerchey company. At first she refused to go, but conceiving the idea of some fun, consented to the arrangement, and rode to meet her admirer.

In order that he might not observe the mirth indulged at his expense, the rest of the party galloped on, Chester riding by the side of the sociable Jane Dustan.

"What a delightful creature this is!" cried Sarah, wheeling sharply around Mr. Kerchey. "I could ride him night and day without wearying."

"Ah! glad to h--h--hear it!" said the amateur farmer, still holding the saddle with a fearful grasp.

"I see you are very careful of your horse," she added, letting her animal prance daintily on before. "Is he lame?"

"No--not--not exactly----"

"Ha! ha! I see! You are preserving his wind in order to outstrip us towards the close of the ride! I shall look out for you, Mr. Kerchey!"

"I--beg--to--assure--you--" replied the tortured man, each word jolted out of his lungs by the hard-trotting horse, "I--have no--no such intention."

"How I envy you the advantages of living in a city!" exclaimed Sarah. "You have riding-schools there; you must have enjoyed them a great deal, Mr. Kerchey."

If, on ordinary occasions, it was difficult for the amateur farmer to express his ideas, what shall we say of him in his present painful situation? All his faculties were called into activity by the threatening danger. His own horse was beginning to prance and amble sidewise; and it was only by the exercise of great vigilance that he kept his balance at all. Let the reader endeavor to carry on a sprightly conversation with a saucy girl and add up a long column of figures at the same time, and he may be able to form a dim conception of the ordeal through which Mr. Kerchey was compelled to pass.

"I--I--never--rode much," he managed to articulate.

"Indeed? you surprise me," cried Sarah, carefully committing the trifling mistake of touching his horse with the tip of her whip.

The animal leaped into the air, breaking so suddenly into a gallop that Mr. Kerchey barely escaped being thrown to the ground.

"Whoa--_whoa_--_whoa_!" he ejaculated, in an agitated voice, letting go one of the reins, in his confusion.