As Father Brighthopes entered the sitting-room on the following morning, he found Mr. and Mrs. Royden engaged in a warm and not very good-natured discussion.
"Come, wife, let us leave it to our wise old friend," said the former, the frown passing from his brow. "I agree to do as he says."
"He cannot possibly appreciate my feelings on the subject," replied Mrs. Royden, firmly. "But you can tell him what we were talking about, if you like."
The old man's genial smile was sufficient encouragement for Mr. Royden to proceed; but his wife added, quickly,
"I don't know, though, why you should weary him with details of our troubles. It is our business to make him comfortable, and not to call on him to help us out of our difficulties."
"My dear sister," said Father Brighthopes, warmly, "the joyful business of my life isto help. I did not come to see you merely to be made comfortable. I shall think I have lived long enough when I cease to be of service to my great family. These hands are not worth much now," he continued, cheerfully, "but my head is old enough to be worth something; and when I am grown quite childish, if I live to see the time, I trust God will give me still a use, if it is nothing more than to show the world how hopeful, how sunny, how peaceful, old age can be."
"I cannot think of a nobler use," said Mr. Royden, "since to see you so must lead the young to consider those virtues to which you owe your happiness. Selfish lives never ripen into such beautiful old age. But to our affair. To-day is Saturday; next week commences a busy time. We go into the hay-field Monday morning. I shall have two stout mowers, who will board with us, and, as they will probably want some more solid food than apples and nuts," said Mr. Royden, with quiet humor, "the consequence will be an increase of labor in the kitchen."
"I should think so!" cried the old man. "What delightfully keen appetites your strong laborers have!"
"And Mr. Royden insists on it," added the wife, "that I should have a girl to help me!"
"Certainly, I do; isn't the idea rational, Father Brighthopes?"
"There are a good many objections to it," said Mrs. Royden. "In the first place, the children recommence going to school Monday morning, and I shall not have them in the way. If ever I was glad of anything, it is that Miss Selden is well enough to take charge of the children again; she has been off a fortnight; and I have been nearly crazed with noise; but, the truth is, Father Brighthopes, girls are generally worse than no help at all. Not once in a dozen times do we ever get a good one. I have had experience; besides, Hepsy isverywilling and industrious."
"She works too hard even now, wife—youmustsee it. She is weakly; before you think of it, she goes beyond her strength."
"I don't mean she shall hurt herself," observed Mrs. Royden, incredulously. "Sarah will apply herself more than she has done; and, for at least a week, Samuel will be too lame to go into the field, and he can help around the house."
Her husband laughed heartily.
"With your experience, I should not think you would expect to get much out of him," said he.
"To tell the plain truth, then," added his wife, "we cannot very well afford the expense of a girl."
"What's a dollar and a quarter a week?"
"We cannot get a good girl for less than a dollar and a half, at this season of the year; and that is a good deal. It runs up to fifty dollars in a few months. I don't mean to be close, but it stands us in hand to be economical."
"There are two ways of being economical," said Mr. Royden.
"It is not the right way to be running up a bill of expense with a girl who does not, in reality, earn more than her board, which is to be taken into consideration, you know. We have kept either Sarah or Chester at a high-school now for two years; in a little while, James will be going—then Lizzie—then—nobody knows how many more."
"The more the better!"
Mrs. Royden answered her husband's good-natured sally with a sigh.
"You would bring us to the poor-house, some day, if you did not have me to manage, I do believe," she said.
"Somehow," replied Mr. Royden, "we have always been able to meet all our expenses, and more too, although you have never ceased to prophesy the poor-house; and I see nothing rotten in the future. Come, now, I am sure our old and experienced friend, here, will counsel us to rely a little more than we have done upon an overruling Providence."
"We must help ourselves, or Providence will not help us," retorted Mrs. Royden.
"There is a middle course," remarked Father Brighthopes, mildly.
"Define it," said Mr. Royden.
"Have a reasonable care for the things of this world; but there is such a thing as a morbid fear of adversity. I am convinced that we please God best when we take life easily; when we are thankful for blessings, and do not offend the Giver by distrusting his power or will to continue his good gifts."
"There, wife! what do you think of that?"
"It sounds very well, indeed," said Mrs. Royden; "but even if we forget ourselves, we must think of the future of our children."
"My experience is wide," answered the old man, smiling, "and it teaches me that those young people get along the best, and live the happiest, who commence life with little or nothing. Discipline, of the right kind, makes a good disposition; and a good disposition is better than silver and gold."
Something in the tone in which the words were uttered, or in the old man's simple and impressive manner, struck Mrs. Royden, as well as her husband, very forcibly. And when Mr. Royden added that "they had always got along better than they expected, so far, and he did not see the wisdom of hoarding up money for an uncertain future," she gave a partial consent to the arrangement he proposed.
"That is enough!" he cried, triumphantly; "I am sick of seeing house affairs rush forward in haste and confusion, whenever we have workmen. I mean to take life easier than I have done; and I see no reason why you should not. What cannot be done easily, let it go undone. Things will come around somehow, at the end of the year. I have to thank you, Father Brighthopes," said he, "for a clearer insight into this philosophy than I ever had before."
The old man's face shone with gratification.
"If I'm to have any girl," spoke up Mrs. Royden, "I prefer the Bowen girl, if I can get her."
"I'll ride right over for her, after breakfast," replied her husband; "and Father Brighthopes shall go with me, if he will."
The old man desired nothing better, and the arrangement was resolved upon.
As soon as breakfast was over, Mr. Royden went to harness Old Bill. He brought him to the door, and inquired for the clergyman.
"He went to his room," said Sarah; "shall I call him?"
"No; I will go myself."
On entering the parlor, Mr. Royden heard a voice proceeding from the bedroom beyond, and paused. A strange feeling of awe came over him. He was not a religious man; but he could not hear the fervent soul of the clergyman pouring itself out in prayer, without being deeply impressed. He had never heard such simple, childlike, eloquent expressions of thankfulness, gush from human lips. The old man prayed for him; for his family; for the blessings of peace and love to fall thick upon their heads, and for the light of spiritual life to enter into their hearts. His whole soul seemed to go up in that strong and radiant flood of prayer.
When he ceased, Mr. Royden might have been seen to pause and wipe his eyes, before he knocked at the door. Father Brighthopes opened with alacrity. His face was glowing with unearthly joy, and there was a brightness in his eyes Mr. Royden had never observed before.
It was another lovely day,—sunny, breezy, and not too warm for comfort. As Mr. Royden and the old clergyman rode along together, the former said,
"You seem to have brought the most delightful weather with you, Father. Everything bright in nature seems to be attracted by you."
"There is more philosophy at the bottom of your remark than you dream of," replied the old man. "Your words cannot be interpreted literally; but the attraction you allude to is real, if not actual."
"I do not understand you."
"I mean a bright spirit sees everything in nature bright; it has an affinity for sunny colors. On the other hand,
'He who hides a dark soul and foul thoughtsBenighted walks beneath the noonday sun.'
'He who hides a dark soul and foul thoughtsBenighted walks beneath the noonday sun.'
A gloomy heart sees gloom in everything. Truly Milton has said,
'The mind is its own place, and in itselfCan make of heaven a hell, of hell a heaven.'
'The mind is its own place, and in itselfCan make of heaven a hell, of hell a heaven.'
The principle holds universally, notwithstanding apparent contradictions and exceptions in various instances. I have seen more pure and perfect happiness, nestled in poverty, in a laborer's cottage, than I ever met with in the houses of the rich."
"Then the fault lies with me," said Mr. Royden, thoughtfully, "whenever my home appears less agreeable and attractive than it might, I suppose."
"In a great measure, the fault is yours, undoubtedly. Do you not think that an established habit of preserving a serene temper, in the midst of the most trying scenes, would produce blessed results?"
"But the power is not in me."
"It is in every man," said Father Brighthopes. "Only exercise it."
"You can have no conception of what I have had to go through," replied Mr. Royden, gloomily. "Everything has conspired to ruin my disposition. My nature has been soured; I could not help it. I have become irritable, and the least thing moves me."
The old man expressed so much sympathy, and spoke so encouragingly, that Mr. Royden continued,
"You remember me, I suppose, an ambitious, warm, impulsive youth?"
"Well do I! And the interest I felt in you has never cooled."
"Hope was bright before me. I believed I should make some stir in the world. All my plans for the future were tinged with the colors of romance. But the flowers I saw in the distance proved to be only briers."
"You found life a stern and unromantic fact," said Father Brighthopes, smiling. "The same disenchantment awaits every imaginative youth. It is sad—it is often very bitter; but it is a useful lesson."
"The blue hills I climbed grew unusually rugged and rocky to my undisciplined feet," resumed Mr. Royden, shaking his head. "I came upon the ledges very suddenly. The haze and sunshine faded and dissolved, even as I reached the most enchanting point of the ascent."
"It is plain you allude to your marriage."
Mr. Royden was silent. His features writhed with bitter emotions, and his voice was deep and tremulous, when at length he spoke.
"My wife is the best of women at heart," he said. "I feel that I could not live without her. But she never understood me, and never could. With the aspirations dearest to my soul she has had no sympathy."
"It is her misfortune, and not her fault, I am sure," replied Father Brighthopes.
"I know it is—I know it is! We did not understand each other before marriage. Our attachment was a romantic one. She had no thought of what was in me; she saw me only as a lover attractive enough to please her girlish imagination. She was very beautiful, and I loved her devotedly. But—" Mr. Royden's voice was shaken—"when I looked to find my other ideal self glowing beneath her brilliant exterior, I saw a stranger there. I found that it was not her character I had loved."
"And she, probably, made a similar discovery in you," said the old man, cheerfully, but feelingly.
"No doubt—no doubt! But I do wrong to speak of this," murmured Mr. Royden, brushing a tear from his eye. "It is a subject I could never talk upon to a living soul, and how I have come to let you into my confidence I am at a loss to know."
"Some good angel prompted you, perhaps," replied Father Brighthopes, "in order that something may come, through me, to counsel or comfort you."
"I would gladly think so!" exclaimed his companion. "I want consolation and instruction: and you are so wise an old head!"
He coughed, spoke to the horse, to urge him into a faster pace, and, having silenced his emotions, resumed the subject of conversation.
"I had little idea of being a farmer, until I was married. It was necessary to engage in some pursuit, and I had not prepared myself for any learned profession. I fondly dreamed that some way would be opened for me by the magic of my genius; for I was passionately devoted to music, in which I believed I might excel. Delicious dreams of a bright career were followed by naked, everyday life—farmers' cares and farmers' toil. I could not be reconciled to the reality. I murmured because Sarah was so cold, practical, and calculating; I know I made her unhappy. I was constitutionally irritable, and a habit of fretfulness grew upon me. This was not designed to soften her rather harsh nature, or benefit her temper. With children came an increase of cares and discords, which sometimes almost maddened me. Oh, why was I formed so weak, so infirm a mortal?" groaned Mr. Royden. "I have tried in vain to govern my spleen. It rules me with a finger of fire."
"Do you know," said Father Brighthopes, feelingly, "I have a disposition naturally very much like yours?"
"You!"
"Your mother was my father's sister; we inherited from the same stock the same infirm temper. The Rensfords are constitutionally nervous. Our sense of harmony and discord is too fine; we have bad spleens; and we lack fortitude. Ill-health, of which we have both seen somewhat, aggravates the fault."
"But what can cure it?" exclaimed Mr. Royden.
"I never saw my remedy until my eyes were opened to the sublime beauty of Christ's character. The wisdom he taught filled me with the deepest shame for my folly of fretting at the trivial perplexities of life. I cried out, in agony, 'Oh, God give me strength!' Strength came. It will come to those who ask for it with earnest, unselfish hearts."
Observing that Mr. Royden was thoughtful, and plunged in doubt, the old man changed the conversation. He spoke of Mrs. Royden. He expressed his sympathy for her, and indirectly showed his companion how tender he should be of her, how charitable towards her temper, how careful not to make her feel the hedge of thorns which their ill-matched dispositions had placed between them. He went so far as to teach how, by mutual forbearance, forgetfulness of the past and hope for the future, pleasant discourse and serene contentment with the ways of Providence, these briers might be made to blossom thick with roses.
"Talk with her—talk with her!" said Mr. Royden, with gushing emotions. "Oh, if you could create such harmony between us, I would bless you, not for our sakes alone, but for our children's. We are spoiling them; I see it every day. I am not severe with them; but one hour I am fretful, and the next too indulgent. My wife thinks it necessary to counteract my too easy discipline by one too strict. She punishes them sometimes when she is angry, and that is sure to make them worse."
If Mr. Royden had said she never punished the children except when she was angry, he would not have gone far from the truth.
Our friends met a ruddy farmer on horseback. He reined up on the road-side, and stopped. Mr. Royden also stopped, and said,
"Good-morning, Deacon Dustan."
"Good-morning, good-morning, neighbor," cried Deacon Dustan, heartily, his sharp gray eyes twinkling as he fixed them on the old clergyman's face. "Good-morning to you, Father. Mr. Rensford, I believe? I heard of your arrival, sir, and intended to call and make your acquaintance."
The old man acknowledged the compliment in his usual simple and beautiful manner.
"We thought of getting around to your place yesterday, deacon," said Mr. Royden. "But we found we had not time."
"Try again, and better luck!" replied Deacon Dustan. "By the way," he added, in an off-hand, careless manner, "I suppose you will put your name on our paper for the new meeting-house?"
"Is the thing decided upon?"
"Oh, yes. The old shell has held together long enough. The other society has got the start of us, at the village; and we must try to be a little in the fashion, or many of our people will go there to meeting."
"I don't know; but I suppose I must do something, if a new house is built," said Mr. Royden. "The old one seems to me, though, to be a very respectable place of worship, if we are only a mind to think so."
"It would do very well five years ago," said Deacon Dustan. "But our society has come up wonderfully. We have got just the right kind of minister now. Mr. Corlis is doing a great thing for us. I don't think we could have got a more popular preacher. He is very desirous to see the movement go on."
Mr. Royden said he would consider the matter; a few more remarks were passed, touching the business of farmers, the favorable state of the weather to commence haying, and so forth; and the deacon, switching his little black pony, pursued his way.
"I am not much in favor of building a new meeting-house," said Mr. Royden, with a dissatisfied air, driving on. "Although I am not a church-member, I shall feel obliged to give in proportion with my neighbors towards the enterprise."
"Is not the old house a good one?" asked Father Brighthopes.
"As good as any, only it is old-fashioned. Our people are getting ashamed of the high pulpit and high-backed pews, since Mr. Corlis has been with us. Deacon Dustan, who has some fashionable daughters, and a farm near the proposed site of the new house, appears to be the prime mover in the affair."
"He probably views it in a purely business light, then?"
"Yes," said Mr. Royden. "The vanity of his daughters will be gratified, and the price of his land enhanced. I ought not to speak so,"—laughing,—"but the truth is, the deacon is the shrewdest man to deal with in the neighborhood."
"A jolly, good-natured man, I should judge?"
"One of the best! A capital story-teller, and eater of good dinners. But he has an eye to speculation. He is keen. Mark Wheeler, who is a close jockey, declares he was never cheated till the deacon got hold of him."
Father Brighthopes shook his head sadly. He was not pleased to pursue the subject. Presently he began to talk, in his peculiarly interesting and delightful way, about the great philosophy of life, and Mr. Royden was glad to listen.
In this manner they passed by the minister's cottage, the old-fashioned meeting-house and the pleasant dwellings scattered around it; and finally came to a large, showy white house, shaded by trees, and surrounded by handsome grounds, which Mr. Royden pointed out as Deacon Dustan's residence.
A little further on, they came to a little brown, weather-beaten, dilapidated house, built upon a barren hill. Here Mr. Royden stopped.
"This is one of Deacon Dustan's houses," said he. "Job Bowen, an old soldier, who lost a leg in the war of 1812, lives here. He is now a shoemaker. I hope I shall be able to engage his daughter Margaret to come and live with us. Will you go in, or sit in the wagon?"
"I shall feel better to get out and stir a little," replied the clergyman.
Mr. Royden tied Old Bill to a post, and, letting down a pair of bars for his aged friend, accompanied him along a path of saw-dust and rotten chips to the door.
They were admitted by a bent and haggard woman, who said "good-morning" to Mr. Royden and his companion, in a tone so hoarse and melancholy as to be exceedingly painful to their ears.
"Will you walk in?" she asked, holding the door open.
"Thank you. Is your daughter Margaret at home now?"
"Yes, she is."
Mrs. Bowen talked like a person who had lost all her back teeth, and her accents seemed more and more unhappy and forbidding.
"I called to see if you could let her come and help us next week," said Mr. Royden.
"I don't know. Sit down. I'll see what she says."
Having placed a couple of worn, patched and mended wooden chairs, for the callers, in the business room of the house, Mrs. Bowen disappeared.
Father Brighthopes looked about him with a softened, sympathizing glance; but, before sitting down, went and shook hands with a sallow individual, who was making shoes in one corner. He was a short, stumpy, queer-looking man, past the middle age, with a head as bald as an egg, and ears that stood out in bold relief behind his temples. Sitting upon a low bench, his wooden leg—for this was Job, the soldier—stuck out straight from his body, diverging slightly from the left knee, on which he hammered the soles of his customers.
"Ah! how do you do?" said he, in a soft, deliberate half-whisper, as Father Brighthopes addressed him.
With his right hand,—having carefully wiped it upon his pantaloons, or rather pantaloon, for his luck in war enabled him to do with half a pair,—he greeted the old clergyman modestly and respectfully, while with his left he raised his steel-bowed glasses from his nose.
"My friend," said Father Brighthopes, "you seem industriously at work, this morning."
"Pegging away,—pegging away!" replied Job, with a childlike smile. "Always pegging, you know."
There was an evident attempt at so much more cheerfulness in his voice than he really felt, that the effect was quite touching.
"That's my mother," he added, as the clergyman turned to shake hands with a wrinkled, unconscious-looking object, who sat wrapped in an old blanket, in a rocking-chair. "A kind old woman, but very deaf. You'll have to speak loud."
"Good-morning, mother," cried Father Brighthopes, raising his voice, and taking her withered hand.
The old woman seemed to start up from a sort of dream, and a feeble gleam of intelligence crossed her seamed and bloodless features, as she fixed her watery eye upon the clergyman.
"Oh, yes!" she cried, mumbling the shrill words between her toothless gums, "I remember all about it. Sally's darter was born on the tenth of June, in eighteen-four. Her husband's mother was a Higgins."
The clergyman smiled upon her sadly, nodded assent, and, laying her hand gently upon her lap, turned away.
"Her mind's a runnin' on old times, and she don't hear a word you say, sir," observed Job, in his peculiar half-whisper, slow, subdued, but very distinct. "She don't take much notice o' what's goin' on now-days, and we have to screech to her to make her understand anything. A kind old lady, sir, but past her time, and very deaf."
Mr. Royden squeezed a drop of moisture out of his eye, and coughed. Meanwhile the aged woman relapsed into the dreamy state from which she had been momentarily aroused, drawing the dingy blanket around her cold limbs, and whispering over some dim memory of the century gone by.
"You have a good trade, friend Bowen," said Father Brighthopes, drawing his chair near the shoemaker's bench.
"It does capital for me!" replied Job, cheerfully. "Since I got a bayonet through my knee at Lundy's Lane, I find I get on best in the world sittin' still."
He smiled pleasantly over this feeble attempt at humor, and arranged some waxed ends, which, for convenience, he had hung upon his wooden leg.
"Did you learn shoe-making before you went soldiering?" asked the clergyman.
"I'd been a 'prentice. But I tired of the monotony. So I quarreled with my trade, and fought mylastat Lundy's Lane, as I tell people," said Job, with twinkling eyes.
"You got the worst of it?"
"All things considered I did. This fighting is bad business; and, you see, I decidedly put my foot in it."
Job touched his wooden leg significantly, to illustrate the joke.
"You seem merry over your misfortune," observed Father Brighthopes.
"Better be merry than sad, you know. There's no use o' complainin' of Providence, when my own folly tripped me up. My understanding is not so lame as that."
It was amusing to see with what a relish the poor fellow cracked these little jokes of his over his infirmity. To get hold of someone who had never heard them before, and could laugh at them as well as if they were quite fresh and new, seemed a great happiness to him; and the clergyman did not fail to appreciate and encourage his humor.
"On the whole," said the latter, "you made a bad bargain when you traded your hammer and awl for a musket and cartridge-box?"
Job's eyes glistened. He rubbed his hands together with delight. The old man had given him a capital opportunity to get in another of his jokes, just like an impromptu.
"I might have made a worse bargain," he said. "As long as I had one leg left,"—he touched his solitary knee,-"I ought to call it a good bargain. You see, I did not come off altogether without something to boot."
"I hope you were contented to return to shoe-making?" remarked the clergyman, laughing.
"Well—yes," replied Job, in his cheerful half whisper. "I did not find the change so difficult as many would. I can say, truthfully, that, with me, there was but one step between the battle-field and the shop."
Father Brighthopes took time to consider the enormity of this far-reaching jest, and replied,
"Well, brother; I trust you get along pretty well now."
"Passable, passable. Better than I should, if I was a lamp-lighter or a penny-postman. I wouldn't make a very good ballet-dancer, either. Do you think I would?"
Father Brighthopes replied that, in his experience, he had learned to regard a contented shoemaker as more blessed—even if he had lost a leg—than a miserly millionaire, or an ambitious monarch.
"I've had considerable to try me, though," said Job. "Two fine boys, 'at would now be able to take care of me and the family, got the small-pox both 't a time; one was nineteen, t'other fifteen; I'd rather lost a dozen legs, if I'd had 'em," he murmured, thoughtfully. "Then I've one darter that's foolish and sickly. She an't able to do nothin', and it's took more 'n my pension was wo'th to doctor her."
"You have seen affliction: thank God, my friend, that you have come through it so nobly!" exclaimed Father Brighthopes, smiling, with tears of sympathy running down his cheeks.
He patted Job's shoulder kindly; and the poor fellow could not speak, for a moment, his heart was touched so deeply.
"It's all for the best, I s'pose," said he, coughing, and drawing his shirt-sleeve across his eyes.
"Yes; and you will get your reward," answered the old man.
"So I believe! I find so much comfort in these good old leaves."
Job pointed to a worn Bible, that lay on the mantel-piece.
"Right! right!" cried the clergyman, joyously. "Job Bowen, there is a crown for thee! Job Bowen, in my life I have not met with twenty men so blessed as thou. But thousands and thousands of the rich and prosperous well might envy thee, thou poor Christian shoemaker, with one leg!"
"Thank you! thank you, for saying so much!" bubbled from Job's lips, like a gushing stream of glad water.
He laughed; he shed tears; he seemed warmed through and through with the sunshine of peace. The clergyman clasped his hand, weeping silently, with joy in his glorious old face.
"Yes," said Job, rallying, "I knowed it 'u'd be all right in the end. I tell folks, though I an't good at dancing and capering, and turning short corners in life, and dodging this way and that, with my wooden stump, I shall do well enough in the long run."
"And, considering how well afflictions prepare us for heaven, we may say," added Father Brighthopes, "you have already put your best foot forward."
"That I have! that I have!" cried Job, delighted.
"How does your wife bear up, under all her trials?" asked the old man.
At this juncture the old woman in the corner started once more from her dreams, and cried out.
"On the left-hand side, as you go down. There was thirteen children of 'em—all boys but two. The youngest was a gal, born the same day we sold our old brindle cow."
Mr. Royden and the clergyman both started, and looked at the speaker.
"Don't mind her,—don't mind the poor creatur'!" said Job, softly. "Her talk is all out of date; it's all about bygones. A kind old lady, but childish again, and very deaf."
Father Brighthopes returned to the subject they were conversing upon.
"My wife has seen a mighty deal of bad weather," said Job, very softly. "Oh, she has got through it amazin' well, for a feeble woman. She astonishes me every day o' my life. But, then, you see, she's a good deal broken, late years."
"I am sorry for her,—sorry for her!" exclaimed the clergyman, warmly. "But there's a good time coming for all of us old people,"—looking up, with a peaceful smile.
"So I tell her," replied Job. "But she han't got the animal sperrits she once had. And that an't to be wondered at. Oh, she's a good soul! and if she'd pluck up heart a little,—gracious!" exclaimed the shoemaker, doubling his fists, and compressing his lips with hopeful firmness, "I think I wouldn't like any better fun than to fight the world ten or a dozen years longer!"
"My bold Christian hero!"
"Thank you, sir! To be that is glory enough for me; though I didn't think exactly so when I stood strong and proud on two legs. I believed then I was destined to do wonders with bayonets and gun-powder."
The clergyman patted his shoulder kindly, and said, "Do you not feel it is better as it is?"
"Well, yes. I think of that a good deal. 'Supposing I had got to be a real, genuine bloody hero?' I say to myself. 'What would it all have come to, in the end?' I expect it was the best thing the devil could have done for me, when he knocked me off my pins. Ah! here comes mother, with Maggie."
Mrs. Bowen entered, accompanied by a plain, good-natured, wholesome-looking girl, modest, but not awkward, coarsely but quite neatly attired. She advanced to shake hands with Mr. Royden, and inquired about Mrs. Royden and the children.
"They will all be glad to see you," he replied. "What do you say to coming and helping us, next week?"
"I don't know how I can come, any way in the world," said Maggie. "Ma's health is so poor now, I ought to be at home."
"I s'pose I shall have to spare you, if you think you would like to go," added Mrs. Bowen, in her sepulchral tone of voice.
Maggie colored very red. She seemed to know hardly what to say. Fortunately, the grandmother in the corner attracted observation from her, by crying out, with a shrill, childish laugh,
"So she did! he, he, he! Eggs ten cents a dozen, and all the hens a settin'! That beat all the jokes I ever heard on! Eggs ten cents a dozen, and five hens a—'s—'s—'s—"
The words died away in the old woman's toothless jaws; but her lips continued to move, and her mind seemed to float lightly upon the waves of an inaudible laugh. Mrs. Bowen broke the silence which followed.
"The truth is,"—what a ghostly tone!—"Maggie didn't like to work for Mrs. Royden any too well, when she was there before."
"Oh, ma!" spoke up the girl, entreatingly.
"It's the truth. She liked your folks well enough, but there's pleasanter families to work for."
"Fie, mother!" said Job, softly. "Let bygones be bygones."
"I am glad you spoke of it," added Mr. Royden, frankly. "My wife means to be kind, but she has a good deal to try her, and she gets fretful, now and then. I am troubled the same way, too."
"Oh, Maggie never said a word ag'in' you," rejoined Mrs. Bowen; "nor any real harm of Mrs. Royden, for that matter. But, as I said, there's pleasanter families to work for."
"Well, well!" cried Mr. Royden, desirous of getting away from the disagreeable topic, "I think, if Maggie will try it again, she will find things a little different. At any rate, she mustn't mind too much what my wife says, when she is irritated."
"I suppose you will give a dollar and a half a week, in the busy season?"
If Mr. Royden hesitated at this reasonable suggestion of the girl's mother, it was only because he knew his wife would hardly be satisfied to pay so much. But a glance around the room, in which a struggle with poverty was so easily to be seen, decided him. What was a quarter, a half, or even a dollar a week, to come out of his pocket? How much the miserable trifle might be, falling into the feeble palm of the ghastly woman, whom trouble had crushed, and who found it such a hard and wretched task to toil and keep her family together!
"I can't come until the last of the week, any way," said Maggie.
"I am sorry for that," replied Mr. Royden.
"I might get along as early as Wednesday; Monday I am engaged to Deacon Dustan's——"
"I shouldn't care if you broke that engagement," said Mrs. Bowen. "Rich people as the Dustans are, they an't willing to pay a poor girl thirty-seven and a half cents for a hard day's work a washing!"
"I must go, since I have promised," quietly observed Margaret. "Tuesday I shall have a good many things to do for myself. So I guess you may expect me Wednesday morning."
"Well, Wednesday be it; I will send over for you before breakfast," said Mr. Royden. "Now, I want you to make up your mind to get along with us as well as you can, and you shall have a dollar and a half, and a handsome present besides."
Having concluded the bargain, Mr. Royden took leave of the family, with his companion.
"Lord bless you, sir!" said Job, when he shook hands with the clergyman. "You have done me a vast sight of good! I feel almost another man. Do come again, sir; we need a little comfort, now and then."
"I hope your minister calls occasionally?" suggested Father Brighthopes.
"Not often, sir, I am sorry to say. He's over to Deacon Dustan's every day; but he never got as far as here but once. And I'd just as lives he wouldn't come. He didn't seem comfortable here, and I thought he was glad to get out of sight of poverty. He's a nice man,—Mr. Corlis is, sir,—but he hasn't a great liking to poor people, which I s'pose is nat'ral."
"Well, you shall see me again, Providence permitting," cried Father Brighthopes, cheerfully. "Keep up a good heart," he added, shaking hands with Mrs. Bowen. "Christ is a friend to you; and there's a glorious future for all of us. Good-by! good-by! God bless you all!"
He took the grandmother's hand again, and pressed it in silence. His face was full of kindly emotion, and his eyes beamed with sympathy.
"Yes, I guess so!" cried the old woman. "About fifteen or twenty. The string of that old looking-glass broke just five years from the day it was hung up. It was the most wonderfulest thing I ever knowed on! I telled our folks something dre'ful was going to happen."
She still continued to mumble over some inaudible words between her gums, but the light of her eyes grew dim, and she settled once more in her dreams.
Mr. Royden went out; the clergyman followed, leaving the door open, and a stream of sunshine pouring its flood of liquid gold upon the olden floor.
On the following morning the Roydens made early preparations for attending church. The cows were milked and turned away into the pasture; the horses were caught, curried and harnessed; and the great open family carriage was backed out of the barn.
Meanwhile, Hepsy and Sarah washed the boys, combed their hair, and put on their clean clothes. Willie's bright locks curled naturally, and in his white collar and cunning little brown linen jacket he looked quite charming. It was delightful to see him strut and swagger and purse up his red lips with a consciousness of manly trousers, and tell Hepsy to do this and do that, with an air of authority, scowling, now and then, just like his father. Georgie was more careless of his dignity; he declared that his collar choked him, and "darned it all" spitefully, calling upon Sarah to take it off, that he might go without it until meeting-time, at any rate.
Mrs. Royden busied herself about the house, cleaning up, here and there, with her usual energy of action.
"Come, wife!" exclaimed her husband, who was shaving at the looking-glass in the kitchen, "you had better leave off now, and get ready. We shall be late."
"I can't bear to leave things all at loose ends," replied Mrs. Royden. "I shall have time enough to change my dress. Hepsy! If you let the boys get into the dirt with their clean clothes, you will deserve a good scolding."
"Isn't Hepsy going to church?" asked Mr. Royden.
"No; she says she had just as lief stay at home; and somebody must take care of the baby, you know."
"If Sam wasn't such a mischief-maker, we might leave the baby with him."
"Dear me! I'd as soon think of leaving it with the cows! And, Hepsy, do you keep an eye on Samuel. Don't let him be cracking but'nuts all day. Where's Lizzie? Is she getting ready?"
"I think she is," replied Hepsy. "She was tending the baby; but that is still now."
"I can't conceive how we are all going to ride," added Mrs. Royden. "I don't know but I had better stay at home. The carriage will be crowded, and it seems as though I had everything to do."
"There will be plenty of room in the carriage," said her husband, taking the razor from his chin, and wiping it on a strip of newspaper. "Father Brighthopes and I can take Lizzie on the front seat with us, and you and Sarah can hold the boys between you. Chester and James are going to walk."
Mrs. Royden continued to work, until she had but a few minutes left in which to get ready. The second bell was ringing, and carriages were beginning to go by.
"Come, wife!" again her husband exclaimed; "we shall be late. There go Mr. Eldridge's folks."
"They are always early," said she, impatiently. "Do let me take my time!"
But Mr. Royden called her attention to the clock.
"Dear me! who would have thought it could be so late?" she cried. "Where the morning has gone to I can't conceive. Hepsy, come and help me slip on my silk dress."
"Willie wants to ride his stick," said Hepsy; "and it is all dirt."
"Willie cannot ride his stick to-day!" exclaimed Mrs. Royden, sharply. "Do you hear?"
Willie began to pout and mutter, "I will, too! so there!" and kick the mop-board.
His mother's morning experience had not prepared her for the exercise of much patience. She rushed upon the little shaver, and boxed his ears violently.
"Do you tell me you will?" she cried. "Take that!"
Willie blubbered with indignation, being too proud to cry outright, with his new clothes on.
"Stop that noise!"
Willie could not stop; and his mother shook him. This was too much for his dignity, and he bawled with open mouth.
"You shall stay at home from meeting!" muttered Mrs. Royden. "Take off his collar, Hepsy!"
"She shan't!" screamed Willie, throwing himself on the defensive. "I'll bite her!"
"Come, come!" said Mr. Royden; "Willie is going to be a good boy, and go to meeting like a man."
"He shall go into the closet, and stay there one hour!" exclaimed his mother, snatching him up roughly.
Willie met with a providential escape. While he was kicking and screaming in his mother's arms, the noise of a dire disaster filled the kitchen, and contributed to drown his cries.
Georgie, reaching up to the water-pail which stood on the sink-shelf, to get a dipper-full of drink, had somehow pulled it over. Its entire contents spouted upon his face, his bosom, his fresh collar and nice clothes, and the pail came with him to the floor. After the shock, and the jar, and a little gasping, he began to shriek. Mrs. Royden dropped Willie, and ran to the rescue. It was well for the drenched boy that his father arrived first at the spot, and lifted him up. Hepsy was terrified; but Sam, who had hobbled to the door, to tell Mr. Royden that the team was ready, laughed till he was too weak to stand.
Mrs. Royden, incensed by the lad's insolence, made a rapid dash at him; but Sam dodged, and rolled down the steps. Willie, diverted from his own woes by the mischance which had befallen his brother, crept into a corner in the sitting-room, where he hid away from his mother's wrath.
How the storm would have ended it is impossible to say, had not Father Brighthopes made his appearance, serene and glowing from his morning devotions.
"Ah! what has happened to my little friend?" he cried, as Mr. Royden held Georgie up to let him drip.
Mr. Royden had kept his temper with astonishing success; but he was on the point of giving way to his irritable feelings. The old man's appearance was timely. The perplexed father remembered a resolution he had made, and was calm in a moment.
"Oh," said he, "Georgie has been taking a big drink at the water-pail. It was rather too much for him."
"Accidents will happen," cried the clergyman, cheerfully. "Bear it bravely, my fine fellow! You will get dry again soon. It helps nothing to cry about it, my little man."
Georgie was hushed almost instantly. He seemed ashamed to make a great ado about his disaster, and smothered his cries into sobs. Meanwhile, Mrs. Royden, with a mighty effort, had controlled her boiling and bursting temper, and hastened to her room.
It was now impossible that Georgie should go to meeting. Hepsy undressed him, while Mrs. Royden got herself ready with nervous haste. All the neighbors bound for church had gone by before the family began to pile into the carriage. Mr. Royden's patience was fast ebbing away.
"Come, come, wife!" he said. "I told you you would be too late."
She flew around confusedly, doing everything amiss, in her hurry.
Three times, when on the point of getting into the carriage, she went back for something she had forgotten. Then Georgie, unwilling to stay at home, began to whimper aloud, and struggle fiercely with Hepsy, who restrained him from running after the family. To make matters worse, the yearling colt got out of the barn-yard, Sam having afforded him an opportunity by leaving the doors open on both sides of the barn. Mr. Royden had to get him back; for it would not do to let him follow the team to church, and Sam, with his lame foot, could not have kept him out of the road.
Mrs. Royden took advantage of this delay to arrange some portion of her dress, which she had neglected in her haste. Her husband had shut the colt up, and returned to the horse-block, before she was ready. His temper was now on the point of bursting forth, as the clergyman saw by his fiery face, knitted brows and quivering lips.
"Calmly, calmly, brother!" said Father Brighthopes, cheerily. "Take it easy. Keep cool. Heat and passion always make bad things worse."
"I know it!" exclaimed Mr. Royden. "I will keep cool."
He laid down the reins, and took his seat quietly on the horse-block, wiping the perspiration from his brow.
"Let affairs take their course," said he. "If we don't get to meeting at all, it will not be my fault. I have done my best."
"Mother, why don't you come?" cried Sarah, impatiently.
Mrs. Royden bustled out of the house, pulling on her gloves. Her husband helped her up very deliberately, then took his seat calmly and coolly with Father Brighthopes. At length they started, Sam holding the large gate open as they drove through.
"Hepsy!" cried Mrs. Royden, looking back.
Mr. Royden stopped the horses.
"You needn't stop. I can tell her what I want to."
"If you have any directions for her, we may as well wait," said he, quietly.
"Drive on, if you are in such a hurry," retorted Mrs. Royden. "I only wanted to tell her something about the spare-rib. I thought I could make her understand."
They now flew over the ground at a rapid rate, until Willie began to scream.
"Oh, my hat! my hat!"
"Father, why don't you stop?" exclaimed Mrs. Royden, grasping her husband's arm.
"Whoa! whoa! What is the matter?"
"Willie's hat has blown off."
This seemed the climax of disasters. Willie's hat lay in the road, already forty yards behind. Mrs. Royden began to scold Sarah for not attending to the strings, and tying them so that it could not be lost.
Meanwhile Mr. Royden, struggling with his temper, got down and went back for the hat. On his return, his wife seized it, and, in no very pleasant mood, put it on Willie's head,—reprimanding Mr. Royden for moving so slowly.
"I have made up my mind that it is best never to be in a hurry," he replied, in a gentle tone.
However, he drove very fast, and arrived at the meeting-house steps shortly after the last peals of the bell died upon the air. Nothing he disliked more than to go in late; but he was a little cheered at seeing the Dustans, who lived so near, roll up to the graveled walks, in their grand carriage, while he was helping his family out.
During all the unpleasant hurry and confusion of the morning, Father Brighthopes had remained beautifully serene. He seemed to enjoy the ride on that still Sabbath—so different, in its calm and quiet loveliness, from all other days in the week—as much as if nothing inharmonious had occurred. But he was more thoughtful than usual, talking little, as if his meditations took a higher and holier range than on common occasions.
His venerable aspect attracted general attention, as he entered the aisle with the family, at the close of the prayer. His aged form was slightly bent, his calm eyes downcast, and his step very soft and light; while his countenance beamed with a meek and childlike expression of reverence and love.
The old man seated himself with his relatives, in a humble attitude; but Mr. Corlis, after reading the hymn, invited him, through Deacon Dustan, to come up into the pulpit. He could not well refuse, although he would have preferred to remain in his obscure position. He ascended the hidden stairway, which always looked so mysterious to young children, and soon his fine, noble head, with its expansive forehead, and thin, white locks of hair, appeared above the crimson cushions of the desk.
From the pulpit, he glanced his eye over the congregation, as they arose with the singers and stood during the hymn. He was very happy, looking kindly down upon so many strangers, who seemed all dear brothers and sisters to his great heart,—near relations and friends, no less than they who sat in Mr. Royden's pew, and Sarah and Chester in the choir.
The sermon was one of the best Mr. Corlis had ever preached. It was not so flowery as many of his discourses, nor so deep in doctrinal research as others, but it contained more practical Christianity than any of his previous productions. When Father Brighthopes, who was agreeably disappointed in its character, expressed his gratification to his younger brother, at its close, the latter should, perhaps, have confessed how much of its merits were owing to his influence; for, after his interview with the old clergyman, Mr. Corlis, touched to the quick by new convictions of duty, had re-written a large portion of the sermon prepared during the week, and poured into it something of the vital spirit of love and truth which had been awakened within him.
Father Brighthopes read the closing hymn in clear, musical, feeling tones of voice, while the congregation listened with unaccustomed attention and pleasure. When the services were over, a great many sought to be introduced to him, and Deacon Dustan insisted that he should go home with him and dine. But there was a Sunday-school between morning and afternoon services, and he expressed a desire to remain and witness the teachers' labors.
"Perhaps," said he, smiling, "with my experience, I can throw out some useful hints. However, as I think a breath of air will do me good," he added, turning to Mr. Corlis who had asked him to walk over to the parsonage, "I accept your kind invitation. I can return in the course of half an hour, and still have time to utter a great deal more wisdom than I shall be capable of, I fear."
Mr. Corlis had hardly expected this, and, it may be, he was not very pleasantly surprised. It had been impossible for him to foster any resentment from over-hearing the old man's remarks, two days before, touching the duties of clergymen; yet he could not feel altogether comfortable in his presence.
Even this sensation of uncongeniality could not last long. Father Brighthopes was so frank, so humble, so full of love and kindly enthusiasm, that in ten minutes his conversation had swept away the barriers between them. Mr. Corlis really began to like him, and feel that his counsel and support might be of great assistance to him in his labors.
After partaking sparingly of a tempting collation, to which he was welcomed by the bright eyes and rosy lips of Mrs. Corlis, the old man proposed to return to the Sabbath-school; and the young preacher volunteered to be his companion.
The appearance of Father Brighthopes in the school-room was a memorable event. The teachers soon closed up the business of their classes, to listen to what he had to say. All was attention, as he arose, venerable, yet simple and smiling, to address the school.
Hitherto, this had been of a rather gloomy character. Many of the teachers had fallen into a melancholy, droning manner of talking to their pupils about the horrors of sin and the awfulness of God's wrath. The old clergyman's cheerful discourse had so much the better effect, from the contrast. How happy and bright was religion, according to his faith! How glorious was truth! How unutterably sweet was the conviction of God's infinite goodness and love!
It was like the pouring down of sunshine through murky clouds,—that earnest, beautiful discourse. The children never forgot it; and, happily for them, the teachers treasured it in their hearts.
Mrs. Royden thought it did not do her much good to go to meeting. She was so nervous, during the morning service, that it had been quite impossible for her to fix her mind on the sermon, or enjoy the singing.
"I may as well give up going to meeting altogether," she said to her husband, on their way home at noon. "There is so much to be done, every morning, before we start, that it is all hurry—hurry—hurry; and if I take my time, then we are late."
He could not make her believe that she did a thousand things, on such occasions, which she might just as well leave undone; and, to "have peace," he gave over the argument.
The baby had been very cross, and Mrs. Royden concluded to stay at home in the afternoon. This was melancholy intelligence for Sam, who had enjoyed a fine season of fun in the morning, playing with the cat, cracking "but'nuts," and plaguing Hepsy. With the old lady around the house, fun was out of the question on the Sabbath.
Hepsy got ready, and returned with Mr. Royden in the afternoon. Father Brighthopes preached, and his sermon was just such a one as the poor girl needed, to cheer her hopeless, doubting heart. In listening to it, she quite forgot how many eyes regarded her deformed figure and plain face with scorn and dislike; she remembered not the pangs which had shot through and through her sensitive heart, when Chester told her of his intended marriage; the world faded, with its selfishness, pride and envy, and heaven opened, with its angels of peace and love. The old man's eloquent sermon delighted old and young; but there were few fainting, thirsty souls, who drank in its glorious thoughts with such intensity of feeling as did the afflicted Hepsy.
Chester, in the meantime, had made the acquaintance of a new resident in the neighborhood.
This was a somewhat singular individual, about thirty years of age, unmarried, and very rich. He was the son of a merchant in New York; but, in consequence of feeble health, together with certain eccentric notions with regard to society, he had resolved to become a gentleman farmer. He had purchased a valuable estate, lying not far from Mr. Royden's farm; and there he now lived with a trustworthy tenant, of whom he was learning the agricultural art.
Mr. Lemuel Kerchey was not easy to get acquainted with. The admirers of wealthy young men, in the neighborhood he had chosen, courted his society in vain. He was not timid, but exceedingly taciturn; he was a good listener, but as a talker he failed. His sociability was of the negative or passive sort. He could do justice to any good dinner to which he was invited, but somehow he could not be got acquainted with.
Mr. Kerchey sat alone in one of the most expensive pews in church; and every Sunday he looked directly at the minister during sermon and prayer, without once removing his eyes; and appeared just as intent gazing up at Sarah Royden's rosy face, in the choir, during the singing.
At noon Mr. Kerchey accepted an invitation to call at Deacon Dustan's, and partake of a lunch; on which occasion he met Chester. Being introduced to him, and learning that he was Sarah's brother, the bachelor made a mighty effort to talk; but he found it so difficult to express his ideas, that it was really painful to listen to him. However, Chester inclined to encourage the acquaintance, and spared him the trouble, by talking so fast himself, that even Jane Dustan, who was a famous chatterbox, could hardly get in a word.
Mr. Kerchey had driven to church alone in an elegant "buggy," and at the close of the afternoon services he invited Chester to ride with him. In return, the latter asked the bachelor to call at his father's house.
"I shall be—much—ah—pleased," said Mr. Kerchey, in his usual hard way of expressing himself, "to—to—ah—get better acquainted with—with—your people."
Mrs. Royden was preparing a sumptuous meal. Dinner and supper were condensed into one grand repast on Sundays. She liked to have the children come home with keen appetites, which gave their food so delightful a relish.
But Georgie, that afternoon, had burnt his fingers with a wire Sam was heating to perforate an elder-stalk for a fife; the baby was unwell and cross, and, by some unaccountable oversight, Mrs. Royden had let the spare-rib cook a little too hard and brown on one side. Everything had gone wrong with her that day, and when the family came home they found her flushed and fretful.
"Hepsy," said she, "do you change your dress as soon as you can, and help me set the table. Put on your apron, Sarah, the first thing. Why do you scream out so loud, Lizzie? You almost craze me!"
"Why, there comes Chester, in Mr. Kerchey's buggy! He is beckoning for Sam to go and open the gate, I guess."
Mrs. Royden was interested. She had a liking for wealthy young men, and was not displeased to see Mr. Kerchey drive into the yard. Hastily taking off an old tire, assumed to protect her dress, she bustled about to prepare herself to do credit to the family.
"Take him right into the parlor, Sarah," said she. "Willie, you may keep on your new clothes, if you will stay in the house. If you get into the dirt, I shall box your ears."
"I wonder what Chester invited that disagreeable old bach to stop for?" murmured Sarah, not so well pleased.
She received him politely, however. Mr. Kerchey, in her presence, was painfully stiff and incapable of words. His position would have been most embarrassing, had not Chester come to his relief. Afterwards Father Brighthopes made his appearance, and Sarah, begging to be excused, was seen no more until supper was announced.
Hepsy, Sam and the two younger children, stayed away from the table; the first from choice, the others from compulsion. The little boys especially were hungry, and made a great clamor because they could not sit down.
"Do let them come, wife!" said Mr. Royden. "There is plenty of room."
"May we?" asked Willie, with big grief in his voice, and big tears in his pleading eyes.
"No; you can wait just as well," replied Mrs. Royden. "If you tease or cry, remember what we do with little boys that will not be good. Hush, now!"
Notwithstanding this dark hint of the closet, Willie burst into tears, and lifted up his voice in lamentation.
"Hepsy!" cried Mrs. Royden, "take him into the kitchen."
Extreme severity transformed Willie's grief into rage. The cake which had been given him as a slight compensation and comfort for the martyrdom of waiting he threw upon the floor, and crushed beneath his feet.
Mrs. Royden started up, with fire in her eyes; but her husband stayed her.
"Who blames the boy?" he said. "He is hungry and cross. Come, Willie, bring your chair, and sit here by me."
The idea had, by this time, insinuated itself into Mr. Kerchey's brain that the children were made to wait out of deference to him. Mrs. Royden might consider him as one of the calumniated class of bachelors who detest the light of little blue eyes, and hate the prattle of innocent tongues. After one or two attempts to speak, he succeeded in articulating, "I—I think it would be—would be—ah—pleasant to have the children at the table."
"It is so annoying to be troubled with them when we have company!" murmured Mrs. Royden, relenting. "Well, Hepsy, bring their plates."
To see the happiness shining in the little fellow's eyes, which were as yet hardly dry, must have been sufficient to soften any grim old bachelor's heart. Mr. Kerchey struggled to express his gratification, in order not to be outdone by the cheerful and talkative clergyman; but he could only smile in an embarrassed manner upon the boys, and coin these tough and leaden syllables:
"I—rather—ah—like young people of this description."
Mrs. Royden was glad to have peace, for she saw how much the few unpleasant words which had been spoken vexed the proud and sensitive Chester, and was not desirous to have a family scene enacted in presence of the stranger.
The meal was a very cheerful one; Father Brighthopes being in one of his most delightful moods, and the family in good humor generally. Sarah manifested a large talent for quiet fun, in her mischievous endeavors to draw Mr. Kerchey into conversation.
The poor bachelor did his best, but he had never found the expression of ideas a more difficult and laborious task. In vain the kind-hearted Mr. Royden winked for Sarah to desist; in vain the good clergyman delicately filled up the painful pauses in Mr. Kerchey's remarks with natural observations, suggestive and helpful: Sarah persisted, and the guest was forced to talk.
When young ladies are suspected of being objects of attraction, they think they have a legitimate right to make fun of all newly-developed admirers. They may marry them next year; they perhaps look upon such an event as probable and desirable; but they will laugh about them to-day, alike regardless of the pain they inflict on their victims, should they perceive the ridicule, and careless of the distress of prudent mothers and friends.
Fortunately for Mr. Kerchey, his talent for observation was not remarkable. Phrenologically speaking, his perceptive faculties were small, as well as "language" and "concentration." He was rather flattered by Sarah's attentions than otherwise, and very readily accepted an invitation to prolong his call until evening.
"Would you—ah—would you like to—ride—a little ways—ah—after my pony?" he asked of Sarah, as they were sitting in the parlor, after supper.
"Thank you; but I hardly think I ought to go this evening," replied the ready girl.
What a relief it was to hear her silver-ringing voice, after Mr. Kerchey's painful efforts to speak!
"You—you are—you are not—partial to riding—perhaps?"
"Oh, I like it well; but a carriage seems monotonous. Horseback exercises for me!"
"You—like—you like it?"
"Passionately!" cried Sarah. "Oh, how I love a spirited, prancing, bounding pony!"
With his usual labor of enunciation, Mr. Kerchey said that, if she could inform him where a side-saddle was to be obtained, he would be "most—ah—happy" to give her his best horse to ride that evening. He was five minutes occupied in expressing so much.
"We have a ladies' saddle," said Sarah; "but I'd rather not go and ride on Sundays merely for pleasure."
"Ah! a thousand—ah—pardons!" rejoined Mr. Kerchey, conscious of having committed an indiscretion. "Some—some other time?"
Sarah excused his freedom, and gayly told him "almost any time;" and when he finally took his leave, declared that she had "got well rid of him, at last."
Meanwhile, Sam had decoyed Willie and Georgie into the orchard, and betrayed them into a game of ball. He made his lame foot a good excuse to sit upon the grass and enjoy all the "knocking" or "licks," while the boys threw and "chased."
"What are you about there, you rogue?" cried Mr. Royden, who had enough natural religious feeling to desire that his family should behave decorously on the Sabbath.
"Oh, nothing much," said Sam; "only playing ball a little."
"Do you know what day it is?"
"It an't Sunday after sundown, is it? You always let us play then."
"But the sun isn't down yet."
Mr. Royden pointed to the great luminary which still glowed amid the trees in the west.
"Golly! I thought it was!"
"What a story that is! The sun is nearly half an hour high. You could not help seeing it."
Sam looked with amazement, squinting across his ball-club, and dodging his head this way and that, as if to assure himself that it was no delusion.
"Itan'tdown,isit?" he said, honestly. "I'm a little cross-eyed, I expect; and that's why I couldn't see it before."