FATHER BRIGHTHOPES

OR AN OLD CLERGYMAN'S VACATION

BY J. T. TROWBRIDGE

AUTHOR OF "NEIGHBOR JACKWOOD," "CUDJO'S CAVE," "LUCY ARLYN," ETC., ETC.

NEW YORK
HURST & COMPANY
PUBLISHERS

PREFACE.

"Go through the gate, children," said my aunt, "if you wish to see the garden."

I looked out upon half a dozen merry urchins scaling the garden fence. One had already jumped down into a blackberry-bush, which filled him with disgust and prickles. Another, having thrust his curly head between two rails, stuck fast, and began to cry out against the owner of the grounds—my benevolent uncle—as the author of his calamity.

Then it occurred to me that the prefatory leaf of a volume is like yonder wicket. The garden is not complete without it, although many reckless young people rush to the enclosure, creeping under and climbing over at any place, in order to plunge at once amid the fruits and flowers. But the wise always go through the gate; and the little fellow who leaps among the briers or hangs himself in the fence has only himself to blame for the misfortune.

So I resolved to put together this little wicket of a preface; and now, as I throw it open to my friends, let me say a few words about the garden-walks I have prepared.

That they contain some things beautiful, as well as useful, is my sincere trust. Yet I warn thee, ardent youth, and thee, romantic maid, that you will find no hothouse plants, no frail exotics, here. I may promise you some stout sunflowers, however,—pinks, pea-blossoms and peonies,—also a few fresh roses, born in the free country air.

Scorn not these homely scenes, my friends; for you may perchance find the morning-glory of Truth blooming at your side; the vine of Hope overarching your path like a rainbow; yea, and the tree of Life growing in the midst of the garden.

I hope no one will complain of the gay birds singing and fluttering among the boughs; for they can do but slight damage to the sober fruit, and the visitor may owe it to their cheerful strains if he is preserved from drowsiness amid the odors of the poppy-beds.

CONTENTS.

[Preface]
[I. A "United Happy Family."]
[II. Chester]
[III. Evening at the Farm-house]
[IV. The Old Clergyman]
[V. Chester's Confession]
[VI. Morning at the Farm]
[VII. Clouds and Sunshine]
[VIII. Country Scenes]
[IX. Mark, the Jockey]
[X. Company]
[XI. The Lovely and the Unloved]
[XII. Domestic Economy]
[XIII. Talk by the Way]
[XIV. Deacon Dustan's Policy]
[XV. The Philosophy of a Wooden Leg]
[XVI. Going to Meeting]
[XVII. Father Brighthopes in the Pulpit]
[XVIII. Mr. Kerchey]
[XIX. Monday Morning]
[XX. The Hay-field]
[XXI. The Swamp-lot]
[XXII. The Fight and the Victory]
[XXIII. Saturday Afternoon]
[XXIV. The Thunder-storm]
[XXV. A Stream of Peace]
[XXVI. The Rainy Day]
[XXVII. "Old Folks and Young Folks"]
[XXVIII. Mr. Kerchey's Daring Exploit]
[XXIX. Mrs. Royden's Dinner-party]
[XXX. The Old Clergyman's Farewell]
[XXXI. The Departure]
[XXXII. Reunion]
[XXXIII. Conclusion]
[J. T. TROWBRIDGE SERIES]

FATHER BRIGHTHOPES;

OR, AN OLD CLERGYMAN'S VACATION.

I.

A "UNITED HAPPY FAMILY."

There was an unpleasant scowl on Mr. Royden's face, as he got out of his wagon in the yard, and walked, with a quick pace, towards the rear entrance of his house.

"Samuel!" said he, looking into the wood-shed, "what are you about?"

The sharp tone of voice gave Samuel quite a start. He was filling a small flour-sack with walnuts from a bushel-basket placed upon the work-bench, his left hand holding the mouth of the bag, while his right made industrious use of a tin dipper.

"O, nothing,—nothing much!" he stammered, losing his hold of the sack, and making a hasty attempt to recover it. "There! blast it all!"

The sack had fallen down, and spilled its contents all over his feet.

"What are you doing with those nuts?" demanded Mr. Royden, impatiently.

"Why, you see," replied the lad, grinning sheepishly, as he began to gather up the spilled treasure, "I'm making—a piller."

"A what?"

"A piller,—to sleep on. There an't but two feathers in the one on my bed, and they are so lean I can't feel 'em."

"What foolishness!" muttered Mr. Royden, smiling notwithstanding his ill-humor. "But let your pillow alone for the present, and take care of the horse."

"The bag won't stand up, if I leave it."

"Then let it fall down; or set it against the wood-pile. Go and do as I bid you."

Samuel reluctantly left his occupation, and went lazily to unharness the horse, while Mr. Royden entered the old-fashioned kitchen.

The appearance of her uncle was anything but agreeable to poor Hepsy Royden, who stood on a stool at the sink,—her deformed little body being very short,—engaged in preparing some vegetables for cooking. Tears were coursing down her sickly cheeks, and her hands being in the water, it was not convenient to wipe her eyes. But, knowing how Mr. Royden hated tears, she made a hasty snatch at a towel to conceal them. He was just in time to observe the movement.

"Now, what is the matter?" he exclaimed, fretfully. "I never see you, lately, but you are crying."

Hepsy choked back her swelling grief, and pursued her work in silence.

"What ails you, child?"

"I can't tell. I—I wish I was different," she murmured, consulting the towel again; "but I am not very happy."

"Come, come! cheer up!" rejoined Mr. Royden, more kindly, feeling a slight moisture in his own eyes. "Don't be so down-hearted!"

His words sounded to him like mockery. It was easy to say to a poor, sickly, deformed girl "Be cheerful!" but how could cheerfulness be expected of one in her condition?

He passed hastily into the adjoining room; and Hepsy sobbed audibly over the sink. She was even more miserable than he could conceive of. It was not her unattractive face and curved spine, in themselves, that caused her deep grief,—although she had longed, till her heart ached with longing, to be like her beautiful cousins,—but she felt that she was an unloved one, repulsive even to those who regarded her with friendly pity.

Mr. Royden had left the door unlatched behind him, and Hepsy heard him speak to his wife. Her heart swelled with thankfulness when he alluded to herself; and the feeling with which he spoke surprised her, and made her almost happy.

"You should not put too much on the poor child," he said.

"O, la!" replied Mrs. Royden; "she don't hurt herself, I hope."

"She is very feeble and low-spirited," continued the other. "You shouldn't send her out there in the kitchen to work alone. Keep her more with you, and try to make her cheerful. Her lot would be a hard one enough, if she had all the luxuries of life at her command. Do be kind to her!"

Had Mr. Royden known what a comfort those few words, so easily spoken, proved to Hepsy's sensitive heart, he would have blessed the good angel that whispered them in his ear. She wept still; but now her tears were a relief, and she dried them soon. She felt happier than she had done in many days before; and when she heard his voice calling her in the other room, she ran cheerfully to learn what he wished of her.

"Sarah has got a letter from Chester, and he sends his love to you," said he. "Read what he writes, Sarah."

Sarah stood by a window, eagerly running her clear blue eye over her brother's letter. Hepsy, trembling with agitation, looked up at her rosy face, and shrank into the corner by the chimney to avoid observation. At first she had turned very pale, but now her cheeks burned with blushes.

"Why, he says he is coming home in a week!" cried Sarah.

Mrs. Royden uttered an exclamation of surprise, looking up from her sewing; Hepsy shrank still further in the corner, and Mr. Royden asked, impatiently,

"What boyish freak is that?"

"He does not explain. There is some mystery about it," replied Sarah. "I warrant he has been getting into trouble."

"If he has, he shall stay at home and work on the farm!" exclaimed her father, in a tone of displeasure. "Read the letter aloud, now, so that we can all hear it."

Sarah commenced at the beginning, and went through with the four hastily-written pages. The listeners were very attentive; Hepsy especially. She fixed her expressive eyes on her cousin with a look of intense interest. When allusion was made to her, the poor girl's countenance lighted up with pleasure, and her tears gathered again, but did not fall.

"O, a letter!—who from?" cried a ringing voice.

The interruption was a relief to Hepsy. The children had returned from the fields; they entered the sitting-room like a little band of barbarians, with Lizzie—a girl some twelve years old—at their head, laughing, talking, screaming, in an almost frightful manner.

"Hush! hush!" exclaimed Mr. Royden, putting down his foot, impatiently.

"Children!" said Mrs. Royden, with contracted brows, "you don't know how your noise shoots through my poor old head! You drive me distracted!"

"Lizzie runned away from me!" bawled a little bareheaded fellow, with a face red as an Indian's, and not very clean. "The old thing! I'll strike her."

And the young hero, wiping his face with his sleeve, made a savage dash at his sister, with intent to scratch and bite. But Lizzie repelled the attack, holding him at a safe distance by the hair. Upon this, he shifted his mode of attack, and resorted to kicking, with even worse success; for, losing his balance, he fell, and came down upon the back of his head, with a jar which showed him many stars in the firmament of his cranium.

"I never saw such actions!" muttered Mrs. Royden, putting aside her sewing with an ominous gesture, and hastening to the scene of the disaster.

Lizzie dodged, but not in time to avoid several smart cuffs which her mother bestowed on her ears.

"I couldn't help it,—he threw himself down!" exclaimed the girl, angrily, and with flashing eyes.

"What did you run away from him for?"

"I didn't! He stopped to throw stones at the birds, and wanted us to wait. Didn't he, Georgie?"

"Yes, he did," said Georgie. "And he said he'd tell that we ran away from him, if we didn't wait."

"I didn't!" exclaimed the boy on the floor kicking at a furious rate.

"Stop that!" said Mr. Royden. "Willie, do you hear?"

Willie kicked harder than ever, and began to tear his collar with his dirty hands. Mrs. Royden could not stand and see that.

"Why don't you govern him, when you set out to?" she asked, rather sharply, of her husband.

"There! there! Willie will get up and be a good boy," he rejoined, coaxingly.

But Willie did not; and his mother, picking him up very suddenly, shook him till his teeth chattered and it seemed his head must fly off; then set him down in a little chair, so roughly that the dishes rattled in the pantry as if shaken by an earthquake.

"Mother! mother!" said Mr. Royden, hastily, "you'll injure that child's brain!"

"I believe in making children mind, when I set about it," replied his wife, winding up her treatment with a pair of well-balanced cuffs on Willie's ears.

"There!—how does that set? Will you be so naughty again?"

The urchin was quite breathless and confused; but as soon as he had gathered strength, and collected his senses, he set up a yell of rage, which might have been heard half a mile; upon which Mrs. Royden snatched him up, and landed him in a clothes-press, before he knew what new disaster was going to happen. His cries grew fainter and fainter to the ears of the family in the sitting-room, until, the dungeon door being closed, they were muffled and smothered altogether.

His mother, having disposed of him, reappeared in one of her worst humors.

"Go about your work, Hepsy!" she cried. "Lizzie, go and wash George's face. Stop your sniveling! What are you running off for, Sarah?"

"To get out of the noise," said Sarah.

"I've as good a mind to box your ears as ever I had to eat!" exclaimed her mother. "Sit down and finish that seam, you saucy thing!"

Sarah sat down, with a very wry face, while Mr. Royden, looking melancholy and displeased, left the house.

By dinner-time the children had worn off their ill temper, and Mrs. Royden had recovered her equanimity.

"Come, now, let us see if we can't have peace in the family," said Mr. Royden, as he sat down at the table, addressing the children, but intending the words for his wife's ear as well.

"Sammy keeps making faces at me!" complained Willie, whose eyes were still red with crying.

"O, I didn't!" exclaimed Samuel, with great candor.

"I seen him!" said Georgie.

"I was only doing so,"—and Sam, throwing his head to one side, winked with his left eye and looked up at the ceiling with the other.

"What did you do that for?" asked Mr. Royden, beginning to feel irritated again.

"I was thinking how the old goose does when she thinks it's going to rain," replied Sam, performing the operation again, to the amusement of the children.

Mr. Royden smiled.

"Haven't you anything else to do but to watch the old goose?" he asked, pleasantly. "How about that pillow?"

"O, that's fixed! I'm going to sleep on it to-night, to try it."

"Hepsy,"—Mr. Royden seemed just to have discovered that she was not at the table,—"there's room for you. Why don't you sit down?"

"O, she'd just as lief wait and tend the baby," said Mrs. Royden.

"But the baby is still."

"She wants to read our Chester's letter," spoke up James, a lad of fifteen, so loud that Hepsy could hear him in the next room.

"Come, Hepsy! come and eat your dinner," cried Mr. Royden.

She said she was not hungry; but he insisted; and she sat down at the table, looking very pale, and with really no appetite.

Mr. Royden then proceeded to disclose the news which had probably occasioned the unpleasant scowl on his features, at his return from the post-office, two hours before. He said he had received a letter from his cousin Rensford, the clergyman, who proposed to visit them in the course of one or two weeks.

"His health is feeble, and he wants a vacation in the country. He expects me to write, if it will be perfectly convenient for us to have him here a month or so."

"I don't know how we can, any way in the world," said Mrs. Royden.

"O, I hope he won't come!" cried James. "If he does, we can't have any fun,—with his long face."

"Ministers are so hateful!" added Lizzie.

"He shan't come!" cried Georgie, flourishing his knife.

"Hush, children!" said Mrs. Royden, petulantly. "Put down that knife, Georgie!"

"We want a good, respectable private chaplain, to keep the young ones still," quietly remarked Sarah.

"You used to be just like them," said her mother. "If you'd do half as much for them as I have done for you, there wouldn't be much trouble with them."

"How does that fit?" slyly asked James, pinching his sister's elbow.

"Samuel Cone!" exclaimed Mrs. Royden, sternly; "take your plate and go away from the table!"

"Why, what has he done now?" inquired her husband.

"He put a piece of potato in Willie's neck. Samuel, do you hear?"

"Yes 'm," said Sam, giggling and preparing to obey.

Willie had laughed at first at the tickling sensation, but now he began to cry.

"It's gone clear down!" he whined, pressing his clothes tight to his breast. "You old ugly—"

He struck at Sam, just as the latter was removing from the table. The consequence was, Sam's plate was knocked out of his hand and broken in pieces on the floor. The lad saw Mrs. Royden starting from her chair, and ran as if for his life.

"Now, don't, mother! Let me manage," said Mr. Royden.

She sat down again, as if with a great effort.

"You are welcome to manage, if you choose to. Willie, stop kicking the table! Take that potato out of his clothes, Sarah. Hepsy, why don't you clean up the floor, without being told?"

"See how much mischief you do, with your fooling," said Mr. Royden, with a severe look at Sam.

The boy cast down his eyes, kicking the door-post with his big toe.

"Come back, now, and eat your dinner. See if you can behave yourself."

"He don't deserve to have a mouthful," exclaimed Mrs. Royden. "What you ever took him to bring up for, I can't conceive; I should think we had children enough of our own, to make us trouble!"

"He's old enough to know better. Come and finish your dinner."

"I don't want no dinner!" muttered Sam.

But he did not require much urging. Half ashamed, and grinning from ear to ear, he took his place again at the table, Hepsy having brought a fresh plate. Meanwhile Sarah had pacified Willie, and recovered the fragments of potato that had wandered down into his trousers.

Peace being restored, the subject of the clergyman's visit was resumed by Mr. Royden.

"I don't know how we can refuse him; it will be disagreeable, on all sides, for him to be here."

"He will not suit us; and I am sure we shall not suit him," replied Mrs. Royden. "He will want to study and be quiet; and, unless he stays in his room all the time, and shuts out the children, I don't know what he will do. More than all that, I couldn't think of having him around the house, any way in the world."

"I wish I knew what to do about it," muttered Mr. Royden, scowling.

"I want you to do just as you think best, now that you have my opinion on the subject."

This was a way Mrs. Royden had of shirking responsibilities. Her husband smiled bitterly.

"If I decide for him to come," said he, "and his visit proves disagreeable, I shall be the only one to blame. But I suppose there is but one course to pursue. We cannot refuse the hospitality of our house; but I sincerely wish he had chosen any other place to spend his vacation."

"It is so strange he should think of coming among plain farmers, in the country!" observed Mrs. Royden.

"O, don't have him here!" cried the younger children, in chorus.

Although there was a large majority of voices against him, Mr. Royden concluded that Sarah might reply to the clergyman's letter, after dinner, telling him pretty plainly how he would be situated if he came; and say that, notwithstanding their circumstances, they would be glad to see him.

"After this," said he, "I should hardly think he would come. But, if he does, we must try and make the best of it."

II.

CHESTER.

It was on a warm and beautiful afternoon, several days subsequent to the scenes just described, when little Willie, who was catching flies on the sitting-room window, suddenly cried out, at the top of his voice,

"There comes Ches', full garlick! I guess the witches are after him!"

There was a general rush to the window. Willie had spoken truly. There, indeed, was Chester, riding down the road, full gallop, yet hardly with the air of one pursued by hags. He sat the horse bravely, and waved his graceful hand to the faces at the window.

Scrambling and screaming with joy, the children ran to the door to meet their brother. Only Hepsy remained in the sitting-room. Her poor heart beat fearfully, her breath came very short, and she was pale, faint and trembling. She had neither strength nor courage to go forward and welcome her cousin. Samuel came from the garden, James from the barn, and the three younger children from the house, to meet Chester at the gate. The latter swung himself from the saddle, and catching up Willie, who had climbed the fence, tossed him playfully upon the horse's back.

"How are you, chuck?" he cried, kissing Lizzie. "Folks all well? Why, Jim, how you have grown!"

"O! O! O!" screamed Willie, afraid of falling, as Sam led the horse into the yard; "take me down!"

"Don't you want to ride?" asked Chester.

"No! I'll fall! O!"

Chester laughed, and took him off, kissing his tanned cheek, before he set him upon the turf.

"I want to ride!" cried Lizzie.

"Do you?" laughed her brother. He threw her up so suddenly that she found herself in a position rather more becoming to boys than girls. The children shouted while she hastily shifted sidewise on the saddle, and Chester put her foot in the stirrup-strap.

"I want to ride, too!" cried Georgie, clinging to his brother's legs.

"Well, we'll see if the pony will carry double. Hold him tight by the bridle, Sam."

Sam liked no better fun. He held the horse while Chester put up George behind Lizzie. The animal curled back his ears, but did not seem to mind it much.

George was so delighted with his position, that Willie, who had abdicated his seat voluntarily, now began to cry with envy.

"Do you want to ride now?" said Chester. "Hold fast to Georgie, then."

He put him up, and the child laughed gleefully before his tears were dry.

James looked as if he would like to ride, too, but was too manly to speak of it.

"Hold tight, Willie!" said he.

"I will!" cried the urchin, hugging Georgie with all his might.

"O! you hurt!" roared Georgie. "There's a pop-gun in my jacket pocket, and you squeeze it right into my side."

Chester reached up, and removed the pop-gun, much to Georgie's relief.

"Now lead on to the barn, Sam," said he,—"slowly. Don't let the young ones get hurt, when you take them off."

"Let me drive," cried Lizzie.

Sam looked up for Chester's approval, and abandoned the reins to the young lady. The horse moved on towards the barn, good-naturedly, as if he was used to such nonsense.

Chester could not help laughing to see Willie hug Georgie with all his might; his brown cheeks pressed close against his brother's jacket, and his little bare feet sticking out almost straight on each side, his legs being very short, and the animal's back very broad.

While the young man stood there laughing, some one clasped him from behind, and kissed his cheek.

"Sarah! my dearest sister!" cried Chester, folding her in his arms; "I am glad to see you! How beautiful you grow!"

"You can well afford to say that," replied Sarah, gazing with undisguised admiration at his handsome face, and curling black whiskers. "O! I should hardly have known you!"

Chester laughed, well pleased with the praise implied, and, clasping her waist, was dancing with her towards the house, when the screams of little Willie attracted their attention.

Looking round, they saw the boy Sam, who had a rare genius for mischief, tickling the bottom of Willie's foot with a twig. The latter could not help himself; kicking was impracticable, considering his position, and to disengage a hand from George's waist would have endangered his neck by a fall. The little fellow was completely at the mercy of Sam, who walked by the horse, plying the twig, and laughing with infinite good-nature.

"Sam! you rascal!" cried Chester; "let that boy alone."

"I'm only keeping the flies off his foot," replied Sam, candidly.

"Well, if you don't take care, I'll keep the flies off your back with a larger stick than that! Why do you want to spoil the little shaver's ride in that way?"

By this time, Willie, feeling deeply injured, began to bellow, and Lizzie was obliged to drive twice around the big wood-pile, in the center of the yard, to pacify him.

Mrs. Royden met Chester in the doorway, and kissed him affectionately. She proposed half a dozen leading questions with regard to his conduct, his health and his designs, almost in a breath; all of which he answered equivocally, or postponed altogether.

"Where is Hepsy?" he asked, throwing himself on a chair, and wiping the sweat from his fine forehead with a perfumed handkerchief.

"She'll come soon enough," replied his mother, in a disagreeable tone. "Have you got to using perfumes, Chester?"

The young man flirted his handkerchief, smiling disdainfully, and said he "supposed he had."

"For my part, I think they are very nice," added the admiring Sarah.

"Do you, Sis? Well, you shall have as much of them as you want, when my trunks come."

"Where are your trunks?" asked Mrs. Royden.

"At the tavern. I was in a hurry to come home; so I hired a saddle and galloped over the road. Let one of the boys harness up, and go for the luggage."

"Why, your father has gone to the village himself. Didn't you meet him?"

"No; he must have gone by the west road. I wonder if he will stop at the tavern? If he does, the landlord will tell him my traps are there."

"I presume he will go to the tavern, child. We are expecting his cousin Rensford, the clergyman, to-day, and your father went as much to bring him over as anything."

"Pshaw! the old minister?" cried Chester. "How long is he going to stay?"

"I hope not a great while," said Sarah. "Anything but a minister—out of the pulpit."

"He'll just spoil my visit," rejoined her brother. "He has been here, hasn't he? I think I remember seeing him, when I was about so high," measuring off the door-post.

"He spent the night here, several years ago; but we don't know much about him, only by hearsay. He's a very good man, we are told," said Mrs. Royden, with a sigh; "but how we are going to have him in the family, I don't know."

Chester changed the topic of conversation by once inquiring for Hepsy. The girl did not make her appearance; and he expressed a desire to "see a basin of water and a hair-brush."

"You shall have the parlor bedroom," said Sarah.

"But if Mr. Rensford comes—" suggested her mother.

"O, he can go up-stairs."

"I won't hear to that!" cried Chester. "Give the old man the luxuries. I want to see the inside of my old room again."

"But Hepsy and the children have that room now."

"Never mind; I want to look into it. So bring up a basin of water, Sis."

The young man went up-stairs. He heard a flutter as he was about entering his old room. He went in; and Hepsy, pale, palpitating, speechless, caught in the act of arranging her brown hair,—which, like her eyes, was really beautiful,—shrank from his sight behind the door.

"Hillo! so I've found you!" he exclaimed, heartily. "I've been hunting the house through for you. Are you afraid of your cousin?"

The blood rushed into the poor girl's face, as she gave him her quivering hand. He did not kiss her, as he had kissed his sisters; but he pressed her hand kindly, and spoke to her in a very brotherly tone, inquiring how she was, and expressing delight at seeing her again.

As soon as she had recovered her self-possession, her eyes began to beam with pleasure, and her tongue found words. When Sarah came up, the two were sitting side by side upon a trunk; and Chester was rattling away at a great rate, telling his poor cousin of his adventures.

He went into another room to perform his ablutions, and Hepsy was left alone, her veins thrilling, her head dizzy, and all her nerves unstrung. The meeting, the surprise, the agitation and the joy, had been too much for her sensitive nature; and she sought relief in a flood of tears.

Chester was very restless. Scarcely was he seated again in the sitting-room, with his cravat freshly-tied, and his hair and whiskers newly-curled, when he thought of a call he wished to make before night. His mother scolded him dreadfully for running off so soon; but he did not mind it, and ordered Sam to bring his horse to the door.

The children were all around him, begging him not to go; but Willie encouraged the idea, provided he could go too, and ride behind.

"O, you can't ride this time," said Chester.

"Yes, I can. Sam tickled my foot; I couldn't ride good before," whined the child.

But his brother did not acknowledge his claims to indemnification, and mounted the horse. Willie began to cry, and, seizing a hoe, charged upon Samuel furiously, as the author of all his woes.

Chester laughed; but his mother cried out from the doorway, "Do let him ride! Why can't you?" and he called Sam to put the little hero up. He took him over the pommel of the saddle, and galloped away in fine style, leaving George crying with envy.

Willie was delighted, feeling no fear in Chester's arms; and when the latter asked him, in a coaxing tone, if he would go back, the little fellow said he would; and his brother swung him down by the arm from the saddle-bow. He went trudging through the sand, to meet the other children, and brag of his ride while the young man galloped gayly over the hill.

III.

EVENING AT THE FARM-HOUSE.

It was dusk when Chester returned. Riding up to the barn-door, he found Sam trying to make the cat draw a basket of eggs by a twine harness. Sam jumped up quickly, having cast off the traces, and began to whistle very innocently. The cat in harness darted around the corner, and disappeared in the shadows; while the mischief-maker swung the eggs on his arm, and, appearing suddenly to have observed Chester, stopped whistling, out of respect.

"What are you doing to that cat?" cried the young man.

"What cat? O!" said Sam, candidly, "she's got tangled in a string somehow, and I was trying to get her out."

"What a talent you have for lying!" laughed Chester. "Now, do you think you can take this horse over to the village without getting into some kind of a scrape?"

"O, yes!"

"Will you ride slow?"

"I won't go out of a walk," exclaimed Sam, positively.

"O, you may trot him, or go on a slow gallop, if you like; but don't ride fast, for he is jaded. Leave him at the tavern, and come home as fast as you like."

Sam was delighted with the idea; and, having put the eggs in a safe place, mounted the horse from the block, and galloped him slowly down the road.

In a little while he began to look back, and touch the animal gently with the whip, when he thought he was out of sight. Racing appeared to Sam to be capital fun. Instead of taking the nearest way to the village, he turned at the first cross-road, along which he could pursue his harmless amusement in a quiet and unostentatious manner.

In a few minutes he had lashed the horse into what is familiarly termed a "keen jump." The fences, the stones, the grove, with its deepening shadows, seemed to be on a "keen jump" in the opposite direction. The boy screamed with delight, and still plied the whip. Suddenly his straw hat was taken off by the wind, and went fluttering over the animal's crupper.

This was an unforeseen catastrophe; and, fearing lest he should not be able to find the lost article on his return, Sam attempted to slacken speed. But the animal manifested a perfect indifference to all his efforts. He sawed on the bit, and cried whoa, in vain. Frank was not a horse to be whipped for nothing, and he now meant to have his share of the fun. He seemed almost to fly. The rider became alarmed, and, to increase his fright, his left foot slipped out of the stirrup. In an instant he found himself bounding in a fearful manner over the pommel, then on the animal's neck. He cleared his right foot, abandoned the reins, and clung to saddle and mane with all his might. But he somehow lost his balance; he then experienced a disagreeable sensation of falling; and, after a confused series of disasters, of which he had but a numb and sickening consciousness, he made a discovery of himself, creeping out of a brier-bush, on the road-side.

The first object that attracted his attention was a riderless horse darting up the next hill, a quarter of a mile off; and here we must leave the bold adventurer, limping slowly, and with much trouble, over the road, in the dim hope of catching, at some future time, a fleet animal, going at the rate of fifteen miles an hour.

After sending Sam with the horse, Chester walked towards the house; but the family there assembled appearing to be in a sad state of confusion generally, he stopped before reaching the door. Willie was shrieking in the shed, and striking his cousin Hepsy, because she insisted on washing his feet before putting him to bed. Georgie was in the kitchen, blubbering sullenly; he had seen Sam trot Frank out of the yard, and was angry at losing the ride he had anticipated on Chester's return. Lizzie was trying to get a book away from Sarah, with much ado, and Mrs. Royden was scolding promiscuously.

"What a home to cheer a fellow, after six months' absence!" murmured the young man, feeling sick at heart; "and it would seem so easy to make it cheerful and pleasant!"

He turned away, and, walking into the orchard, met his brother James.

"Hasn't father returned?" he asked.

"Oh, yes; two hours ago."

"Did he bring my trunks?"

"Yes," said James; "and a load he had of it. The old minister is come, with baggage enough of his own to last, I should think, a year or two."

Chester expressed some disagreeable sentiments touching the old clergyman's visit, and walked with James into the lane, behind the barn, to find his father.

Mr. Royden was rejoiced to meet his long-absent son.

"You milk the old red cow yet, I see," said Chester.

"Yes," replied his father, continuing the humble occupation; "I suppose I shall have to as long as we keep her."

"How many times that foot of hers has knocked over a frothing pail for me!" rejoined Chester.

"I don't know why it is, but nobody except me can do anything with her," said Mr. Royden. "The hired men are as afraid of her foot as of a streak of lightning. Sometimes, when I am away, the boys try to milk her; but she thinks she has a perfect right to knock them around as she pleases. I believe it is because they are not gentle; they fool with her, and milk so slow that she gets out of patience; then, when she kicks, they whip her. That's no way, James. You see, I never have any trouble with her. I'd rather milk her than any cow in the yard; I never knew her to kick but once or twi—"

"This is the third time!" said Chester, laughing.

While his father was speaking the cow's foot had made one of its sudden and rapid evolutions. The pail was overturned; the milk was running along the ground, and the animal was running down the lane.

Mr. Royden got up from the stool, and looked at mischief she had done, with a blank expression.

"You didn't get spattered, I hope?" said he.

"No, I think not;" and Chester passed his hand over his clothes.

"Shall I head her off?" asked James.

"No. I had just finished."

"That's just the time she always kicks, father."

"I know it; and I ought to have been on the lookout. She don't like to have any talking going on during the business of milking. Come, let us go to the house."

The children had been put to bed; the candles were lighted, and the sitting-room looked quite cheerful.

"What made you stay so long, Chester?" asked Mrs. Royden. "You haven't had any supper, have you?"

"Yes; the Dustans invited me to tea."

"And did you walk home?"

"Walk! No, indeed, I rode."

"But you are not going to keep that horse over night, on expense, I hope," said Mrs. Royden.

Chester replied that he had sent Sam with him to the village.

"Now, that boy will do some mischief with him, you may depend! Why couldn't you walk over from the tavern in the first place, instead of hiring a horse? You shouldn't be so careless of expense, Chester."

The young man began to whistle. The entrance of Sarah seemed a relief to him; and he immediately proposed a game of whist. His mother opposed him strenuously, saying that she wanted him to talk, and tell all about his fortunes and prospects, that evening; but it was his object to avoid all conversation touching his own conduct, in presence of the family.

"Come, Jim," said he, "where are the cards? Will Hepsy play?"

"Hepsy is busy," replied Mrs. Royden, curtly. "If you must play, Lizzy will make up the set."

"But the minister?" suggested Lizzie.

"Yes," said her mother. "It will not do to play before him."

"He has gone to bed, I am pretty sure," cried Sarah. "He was very tired, and it is all still in his room."

"Let us have a little sport, then, when we can," said Chester.

The table was set out; the players took their places, and the cards were shuffled and dealt.

"They don't know one card from another over at Deacon Smith's," observed Sarah, sorting her hand. "I never knew such stupid people."

"What is that,—a knave or a king?" inquired Lizzie, holding up one of her cards.

"Don't you know better than to show your hand?" cried James, who was her partner. "It's a knave, of course. The king has no legs."

"You needn't be so cross about it!" murmured Lizzie.

"If you don't know how to play," retorted her brother, "you'd better let Hepsy take your place."

"Children!" cried Mrs. Royden, "if you can't get along without quarreling, I will burn every card I find in the house. Now, do you mark my word!"

To keep peace, Chester proposed to take Lizzie for his partner; a new hand was dealt, and the play went on.

"I wish," said Mrs. Royden, as her husband entered the room, "I wish you would make the children give up their whist for this evening."

But Mr. Royden liked to have his family enjoy themselves; and, as long as cards kept them good-natured, he was glad to see them play. He sat down by the side-table, opened a fresh newspaper he had brought from the village, adjusted his glasses on his nose, and began to read.

IV.

THE OLD CLERGYMAN.

In a little while, Hepsy came in from the kitchen, having finished her work, and, timidly drawing a chair near the whist-table, sat down to watch the game.

"I don't want Hepsy looking over my shoulder!" exclaimed Lizzie, with an expression of disgust.

"If you would let her tell you a little about the game, you would get along full as well," observed James, sarcastically.

"I don't want her to tell me!"

"Hepsy," spoke up Mrs. Royden, "why don't you take your sewing? You won't do any good there."

"Do let her look on, if it interests her," said Mr. Royden, impatiently putting down his paper, and lifting his glasses. "Don't keep her at work all the time."

But Hepsy, the moment Lizzie spoke, had shrank away from the table, with an expression of intense pain on her unattractive face.

"Come here, Hepsy," said Chester, drawing a chair for her to his side; "you may look over my shoulder. Come!"

The girl hesitated, while the big tears gathered in her eyes; but he extended his hand, and, taking hers, made her sit down. After he had played his card, he laid his arm familiarly across the back of her chair. Her face burned, and seemed to dry up the tears which had glistened, but did not fall.

Mr. Royden took up his paper again with an air of satisfaction; his wife looked sternly reconciled, and plied her sewing vigorously. The play went on pleasantly; Lizzie feeling so thoroughly ashamed of her unkindness to Hepsy—which she would not have thought of but for Chester's rebuke—that she did not speak another disagreeable word during the evening.

"Put the cards under the table,—quick!" suddenly exclaimed James.

"What's the matter?" asked Sarah.

"The minister is coming!" he added, in a fearful whisper.

Footsteps were indeed heard approaching from the parlor. The young people were in a great flurry, and Sarah and Lizzie hastened to follow James' advice and example. But Chester would not give up his cards.

"Let him come," said he. "If he never saw a pack of cards, it is time he should see one. It is your play, Sarah."

Thus admonished, the children brought out their cards again, and recommenced playing, in a very confused manner. Chester's example was hardly sufficient to give them courage in the eyes of the minister.

They heard the door open, and there was not a face at the table, except Chester's, but burned with consciousness of guilt.

"Ah, how do you feel, after your journey?" asked Mr. Royden. "Hepsy, place a chair for Mr. Rensford."

"No, no; do not trouble yourself, my child," said the old gentleman, smiling kindly upon the girl. "Let me help myself."

He sat down in the seat she had vacated, behind Lizzie's chair.

"I feel much rested," he added, cheerily. "That nice cup of tea, Sister Royden, has made a new man of me."

Mrs. Royden acknowledged the compliment with a smile, and Mr. Royden proceeded to give his venerable relative a formal introduction to his son Chester. The young man arose proudly, and, holding the cards in his left hand, advanced to offer the other to the clergyman.

"Ah! my young friend again!" cried the old gentleman, with a gleam of genuine sunshine on his face. "I hardly expected to meet you so soon."

Chester's manner changed oddly. He recoiled a step, and, although he maintained his proud bearing, his eye fell, and his cheeks tingled with sudden heat. But, recovering himself almost immediately, he accepted the proffered hand, and murmured,

"This is a surprise! My compliments to you, sir. I am glad to see you looking so well, after your tedious journey."

"You have met before, I take it?" suggested Mr. Royden.

"Only this morning, and that without knowing each other," replied the clergyman. He looked over Lizzie's shoulder. "What is this, my dear? Whist?"

"Yes, sir," murmured the girl, feebly, and with a blush of shame.

In her confusion she threw down the worst card she could have played. But James did not do much better; and the trick was Chester's. He smiled as he took it up, and gently admonished his sister to be more careful of the game.

The old gentleman entered into conversation with the parents, and the children gradually recovered their nerves. But all were now anxious that the play should be brought to a close. It so happened that the victory, to Chester and Lizzie, depended upon one trick. She played wrong, and they lost it; when, to the astonishment of all, Mr. Rensford exclaimed,

"Ah! that was a bad play, my dear! You should have led your ace, and drawn Sarah's queen, then your ten of trumps would have been good for the next trick. Don't you see?"

"Yes, sir," murmured Lizzie, submissively.

"One would say you were an old hand at the game," cried Chester.

"O, as to that," replied the clergyman, smiling, "I used to be considered a good whist-player in my younger days."

"Won't you take a hand now, sir?"

"No, I thank you," laughing good-humoredly; "I gave up the amusement twenty years ago. But let me take the cards, if you are done with them, and I will show this little girl a pleasant trick, if I have not forgotten it."

"Certainly, sir," said Chester.

The family began to like the old gentleman already. Lizzie gave him her seat at the table, and looked over his shoulder. He sorted the cards with his thin, white fingers, and gave a number of them historical names, telling her to remember them. He called the game "The Battle of Waterloo." It proved eminently interesting to the older children, as well as to Lizzie; and, in such a simple, beautiful manner did the old man go through with the evolutions, that all, even the proud Chester, afterwards knew more about the last days of Napoleon's power than they had learned in all their lives.

"There!" exclaimed the clergyman, "isn't that as good as whist?"

"I like it better," answered Lizzie, who found herself already leaning fondly on his shoulder. "But what did they do with Napoleon?"

"Would you like to know?"

"O, yes! very much."

"Well, then, I will tell you. Or, since it is getting late, suppose I lend you a little book in the morning, that relates all about it?"

"I would like to read it," said Lizzie.

"Then I will teach you the game, and you can teach it to your little brothers, when they get older," continued the clergyman.

"Lizzie!" spoke up Mrs. Royden, "don't you know better than to lean upon your uncle's shoulder?"

"I didn't think," replied the girl, the smiles suddenly fading from her warm, bright face.

"O, I love to have her!" cried Mr. Rensford, putting his arm around her kindly.

"But I thought you must be very weary," said Mrs. Royden.

"It rests me to talk with happy children, at any time."

"You are not much like me, then; for when I am tired I never want them round."

"Ah! you lose a great deal of comfort, then!" softly observed the old gentleman, kissing Lizzie's cheek. "I had a little girl once, and her name was Lizzie, too," he added, his mild blue eyes beginning to glisten.

"Where is she now?" asked Lizzie.

"In heaven."

The clergyman's voice was scarcely raised above a whisper; but so deep was the silence in the room, that he was heard distinctly. Hepsy's eyes swam with tears; and the rest of the family were more or less affected by the pathetic reply.

"It is a comfort to think she is there, isn't it?" he continued, with a smile of happiness radiating his calm and hopeful countenance. "How good God is to us!" he exclaimed, fervently.

Afterwards, he engaged in cheerful conversation with the parents; but soon expressed a wish to retire, and, kissing Lizzie again and shaking hands with all the rest, with a pleasant word for each, he took his candle, and withdrew.

But he seemed to have left the warmth of his presence behind him. The family had never separated with happier faces and kinder words than on that night; and Sarah, James and Lizzie, went lovingly up-stairs together.

Chester remained with his parents, to have a little private conversation before going to bed. Mrs. Royden broke the silence.

"It is strange what has become of that boy, Samuel. It was time he was back, half an hour ago."

"I've been thinking about him," replied Chester, with an anxious look. "If he is riding that horse all over creation, I wouldn't give much for him, in the morning."

"I never knew the little rascal to do an errand without doing some mischief with it," added his father. "But he does not mean anything very bad. There's no danger of his doing much damage; so let us forget him for the present, Chester, and talk over your affairs."

V.

CHESTER'S CONFESSION.

Chester could no longer evade the leading question, "Why had he left the academy?" Much as he dreaded giving an account of his conduct, he could not put it off.

As he anticipated, his father was inexpressibly irritated, and his mother decidedly cross, when he confessed that he had been expelled.

"What did you do to bring such disgrace upon your name?" groaned Mr. Royden, more grieved than angry.

"Well," replied Chester, with a burning face, yet without descending from his proud demeanor, "I suppose I transgressed some of their old fogy laws."

"Broke their regulations! But it must have been something outrageous, to result in an expulsion. Tell the whole truth, Chester."

The young man hesitated no more, but made a "clean breast" of the affair. His expulsion had not been a public one, the daughter of the principal having been intimately concerned in his transgressions. Chester had met her clandestinely, won her affections, and brought about an engagement of marriage between them, contrary to her father's will and commands.

When Mrs. Royden learned that the young lady was heiress to a comfortable fortune left her by a near relative, she was quite ready to forgive her son's rashness. But his father reprimanded him severely.

"I hope you have given up the foolish idea of marrying the romantic girl," he said.

"No, sir,—never!" exclaimed Chester, fervently. "If I lose her, I shall never marry. I have her promise, and I can wait. It will not be long before she can marry without her father's consent as well as with it."

"But what do you intend to do, in the mean time?" asked Mr. Royden, in a rather bitter tone.

"I would like," replied Chester, more humbly, as if anxious to propitiate his father,—"I would like to commence with the next term at the L—— Institute."

"A beautiful way you have gone to work to encourage me in what I am doing for you!" interrupted Mr. Royden. "No, Chester! I shall not hear a word to your going to L——. You must stay at home now until you are of age."

The young man leaned his head upon his hand, and looked gloomily at the floor. His father broke the silence.

"A boy of your years to talk of marrying! Preposterous!"

"I have no idea of it, within a year or two," said Chester. "But let things take their course. Do you expect me now to stay at home?"

"Why not?"

"And work on the farm?"

"Are you getting too proud for that,—with your heiress in view?" asked Mr. Royden, with sarcasm.

"It seems as though I might be doing something more profitable, to prepare me for entering life."

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

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

Mr. Royden was considerably softened.

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

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

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

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

Sam was creeping into the kitchen as silently as possible.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Did you leave him at the tavern?"

"Yes,—I left him at the tavern."

"What did the landlord say?"

"He didn't say nothing."

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

"True as I live—" began Sam.

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

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

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

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

"Fell down," mumbled Sam.

"Fell down?"

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

"How did you do that?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

VI.

MORNING AT THE FARM.

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

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

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

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

"Can't walk!"—in a mocking tone,—"what is the reason you cannot?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, sir," murmured Sam.

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

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

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

"He cries," replied Willie, grinning.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The old man smiled serenely.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Very beautiful in theory," said Chester.

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

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

"I grant it."

"Then how does your theory hold?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

VII.

CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE.

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

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

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

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

"Are you seventy-two?" asked Mr. Royden, in a sad tone.

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

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

"Do I not look as old?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Give it to me, I say!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I am going to take Father Brighthopes to ride," answered Chester, briefly.

"It is just as I expected!" exclaimed his mother. "Half your father's time and yours will be taken up in carrying him around, and half of mine in trying to make him comfortable here at home."

"I hope the children will learn a little sweetness of temper of him, in return," said Chester, significantly.

"You impudent fellow! This is the return you make me, is it, for fitting you out for school, and working my fingers to the bone to keep you there? We'll see——"

"Hush, mother! do!"

With a black frown, Chester strode across the room, having warned his mother of the clergyman's approach. With great difficulty she held her peace, as Father Brighthopes entered.

The advent of the old man's serene countenance was like a burst of sunshine through a storm. Without appearing to remark the darkness of Mrs. Royden's features, he took up the baby, and began to toss it in his arms and talk to it, to still its cries. The little creature was quieted at once.

"It is singular," said the clergyman, "I never yet found a child that was afraid of me. How I love their pure, innocent looks!"

Already ashamed of her ill-temper, Mrs. Royden hastened to take the babe from his arms; but he insisted on holding it. Georgie meanwhile had stopped crying, and Sarah came down from the chamber. To the latter Father Brighthopes finally relinquished the charge, and, taking his hat and cane left the house with Chester.

James brought out the horse, and helped his father put him into the wagon-thills.

"Where are you folks going?" asked Sam, hobbling along on the grass, with his foot in the air.

"Over to the village," replied James.

Sam's heart sank within him; and it was with sickening apprehensions of calamity that he saw Mr. Royden ride off with Chester and the old clergyman. They could not go far, he was sure, without discovering the entire mystery of his lame leg; and the consequences seemed too dreadful to contemplate.

VIII.

COUNTRY SCENES.

It was a beautiful balmy morning in June; the whole earth rejoiced in the soft sunshine and sweet breezes; and around the sumachs and crab-apple trees, by the road-side fences, where the dew was still cool on the green leaves, there were glad birds singing joyously, as the wheels went humming through the sand.

No careless child could have enjoyed the ride more than the good Father Brighthopes did. It was delightful to hear him talk of the religion to be drawn from fresh meadows, running brooks, the deep solitude of woods, and majestic mountains crags.

"And to think that the good God made all for us to enjoy!" he said, with his clear blue orbs tremulous with tears.

"You give me new ideas of religion," replied Mr. Royden. "It always seemed to me a hard and gloomy thing."

"Hard and gloomy?"—The old man clasped his hands, with deep emotion, and his face radiated with inexpressible joy. "O! how softening, how bright it is! The true spirit of religion makes men happier than all earthly comforts and triumphs can do; it is a cold and mechanical adherence to the mere forms of religion,—from fear, or a dark sense of duty,—which appears gloomy. Look at the glorious sky, with its soft blue depths, and floating silvery clouds; pass into the shadowy retreats of the cool woods; breathe the sweet air that comes from kissing green fields and dallying on beds of flowers; hear the birds sing,—and you must feel your heart opened, your soul warmed, your inmost thoughts kindled with love: love for God, love for man, love for everything: and this is religion."

So the old clergyman talked on; his simple and natural words bubbling from his lips like crystal waters, and filling his companions' hearts with new and refreshing truths.

Chester drove up before a handsome white cottage, which was one of a thin cluster of houses grouped around an old-fashioned country meeting-house.

"Here our minister lives," said Mr. Royden. "You must see him, first of any."

He helped the old man out of the wagon, while Chester tied the horse.

"What a delightful residence!" said Father Brighthopes. "Ah! let me stop and take a look at these busy bees!"

There were two small hives perched upon a bench, under a plum-tree, and the happy insects were incessantly creeping in and out, through the small apertures,—flying abroad, humming in the flowers of the sweet thyme that loaded the air with fragrance, and coming home with their legs yellowed from tiny cups and bells. The old man was so charmed with the scene, that he could hardly be prevailed upon to leave it, and walk along the path towards the cottage door.

"We see so little of such delightful exhibitions of nature, in city life," said he, "that in the country I am like a child intoxicated with novelty."

They made but a brief call on the minister, who was a young and boyish-looking man of about twenty-five. He received them in his study, a luxurious little room, with a window open upon the little garden in front of the house, and shaded by thick jasmines, trained on the wall. He showed no very warm inclination to sociability, but deigned to treat the old man with an air of deference and patronage, for which he no doubt gave himself much credit. It seemed quite a relief to him when his visitors arose to go, and he politely bowed them to the door.

"If any man leads an easy life, Mr. Corlis does," muttered Chester, as they went through the little gate.

"Hush, boy!" said his father, good-humoredly. "You can't expect a minister to go into the fields, to work with his hands."

"I don't say what I expect him to do; but I can tell pretty well what he does. During the week, he compiles commonplaces, which he calls sermons, drinks tea with his parishioners, and patronizes the sewing-circle. On the Sabbath he certainly labors hard, preaching dulness from the high pulpit, and mesmerizing his congregation."

"What do you talk such nonsense for?" returned Mr. Royden, laughing inwardly.

"Young men learn the ministers' trade, in order to live lazy lives, half the time," continued the young man.

"Too often—too often!"—Father Brighthopes shook his head sadly,—"but judge not all by the few. Idleness is a sore temptation to young clergymen, I know. Their position is fraught with peril. Alas for those who prefer their own ease to doing their Master's work! This consists not only in preaching Christianity from the pulpit, but in preaching it in their daily walks; in acting it, living it, carrying it like an atmosphere about them, and warming with its warmth the hearts of the poor and sorrowful. O, Lord, what a lovely and boundless field thou has given thy servants! Let them not lie idle in the shade of the creeds our fathers planted, nor cease to turn the soil and sow the seed!"

The earnest prayer thrilled the hearts of Chester and his father. It may be another heart was touched with its fire. Mr. Corlis overheard the words, as he listened at his study-window, and his cheek and forehead glowed with a blush of shame.

Mr. Royden and Chester took their old friend to make one or two more calls, and returned home for dinner. Samuel Cone felt very faint, as he lay on the grass in the yard, and saw them coming.

IX.

MARK, THE JOCKEY.

"What have you run away from that churn for?" cried Mrs. Royden, appearing at the door. "Go right back, and fetch the butter before you leave it again!"

"I'm tired," muttered Sam.

"Don't tell me about being tired! You can churn just as well as not."

"Hurts my foot!"

"You can lay your foot on a chair, and——Do you hear?" exclaimed Mrs. Royden, growing impatient of his delay. "Don't let me have to speak to you again!"

Sam hopped into the wood-shed, and began to move the dasher up and down with exceeding moderation. When the wagon drove up to the door, he listened with a sick heart to hear if anything was said about the stray horse. Not a word was spoken on the subject. Even the silence frightened him.

He had never worked so industriously as when Chester entered the shed; and, as the latter passed by without looking at him, he felt certain that retribution was at hand. He listened at the kitchen door, and trembled at every word that was spoken, thinking the next would be something about his unpardonable offence. But his agony was destined still to be prolonged.

"They an't going to say nothing about it till my foot gets well," thought he; "then they'll jest about kill me."

Mrs. Royden had been considerably fretted in getting dinner and her fault-finding had worried poor Hepsy almost to distraction, when the arrival of the clergyman lent quite a different aspect to affairs. He drew the attention of the young children, who had been very much in their mother's way, and dropped a few soft words of wisdom from his lips, which could be taken in a general sense, or understood by Mrs. Royden as applying to her own annoyances in particular. Soon the table was ready, and the entire household, excepting Sam and Hepsy, gathered around it. The former, supposed to be churning, having been warned by Mrs. Royden that he could have no dinner until he had "fetched the butter," was listening to hear if there was any conversation about the horse; and the poor deformed girl, who had preferred to wait and take care of the baby, was shedding solitary tears from the depths of her unhappy heart.

After dinner, Father Brighthopes was sitting on the shaded grass in the yard, relating pleasant stories to the children, when an athletic young man made his appearance at the gate, leading a handsome sorrel horse.

"Hillo, Mark!" cried James, "have you been trading again?"

"Is your father at home?" asked the man with the horse.

James answered in the affirmative, and the other led his animal into the yard, making him dance around him as he approached the little group under the cherry-tree.

Even with hunger in prospective, Sam could not apply himself to the churn when he thought there was any fun going on out-doors. He hobbled out, and took his seat on the grass.

All the children were praising Mark's new horse, which he took especial delight in training before their eyes. At length he led him up to the tree, and talked to him coaxingly, smoothing his face and patting his shining neck.

"Where did you get that plaything?" asked Chester, coming out of the house.

"Ha, how do you do, Ches?" replied Mark, turning around. "When did you get home?"

He tied the halter to the tree, and began to feel of the animal's slender ankles, still maintaining a mysterious silence on the subject of his trade.

"Did you put away the brown horse for this?" asked Chester.

"Where is your father?" was Mark's unsatisfactory rejoinder.

Mr. Royden made his appearance. He was a famous judge of horse-flesh, and his shrewd eye examined the colt's admirable points with evident satisfaction.

"Where did you get him?" he inquired.

"How old is he?" asked Mark.

Mr. Royden looked in the horse's mouth a second time, and pronounced him to be four years old.

"Have you been trading?"

"On the whole," said Mark, "what do you think of him?"

"It's a fine colt; but I think here is a faint appearance of a ring-bone."

Mr. Royden pressed the animal's leg.

"I'll bet you a hundred dollars on it!" cried Mark, quickly, his eye kindling.

He was very sensitive about his horse-property, besides being a choleric man generally; and Mr. Royden only smiled, and shook his head.

"Have you got rid of Jake?"

"Never mind that; tell me what the colt is worth."

Mr. Royden expressed a favorable opinion of the beast, but declined to commit himself.

"Well, it don't make no difference," said Mark, with a smile of satisfaction. "He suits me very well," he added, with an oath.

The clergyman's countenance changed. The smile faded from his lips, and he glanced anxiously from Mark to the little boys who sat on the grass at his feet.

"Better look out about swearing 'fore the minister," said Sam, in a low tone, to Mark.

For the first time the latter regarded the old man attentively. At sight of his thin white locks, the color mounted to the jockey's brow; and when Father Brighthopes raised his calm, sad eyes, Mark's fell before them.

But Mark had some manly traits of character, with all his faults.

"I beg your pardon, sir," he said, frankly. "I wouldn't have used profane language, if I had known there was a minister within hearing."

"My friend," replied Father Brighthopes, in a kind but impressive tone, "you have my forgiveness, if that is of any account; but it seems you should rather forbear from using such language before children, whose minds are like wax, to receive all sorts of impressions—good or bad."

"The truth is," said Mark, "I thought nothing of it. It was wrong, I know."

To conceal his mortification, he began to brush the dust from the colt's feet with a wisp of grass. But his cheek was not the only one that tingled at the old man's words. Chester was very warm in the face; but only the clergyman observed the fact, and he alone could probably have understood its cause.

"To tell the truth," said Mark, laughing, "the colt isn't mine; he belongs to Mr. Skenitt, over on the north road; he has hired me to break him."

"I don't believe that," replied Mr. Royden, half in jest, and half in earnest. "Nobody that knows you would trust you to break a young horse."

"Why not?"

"You're so rash and passionate. You can't keep your temper."

"I believe in whipping, when a horse is ugly," muttered Mark, as if half a mind to take offence,—"that's all."

"You mustn't mind my jokes," said Mr. Royden. "Come, how did you trade?"

"I put away the brown horse, and gave some boot," replied Mark. "By the way, you haven't heard of any one's losing a horse recently, have you?"

"No; what do you mean?"

"Why, Skennit's boys saw a stray one in the road last night."

"Nobody this way has lost one," said Mr. Royden.

Sam's heart beat with painful violence. He was very pale.

"He was running, with a saddle, and with the reins under his feet," continued Mark. "Somebody had probably been flung from him, or he had got away by breaking the halter."

"Was he stopped?" asked Chester.

"Not in that neighborhood, at any rate. It is hard stopping a horse after dark. What's the matter, Sam?"

"Nothing," murmured Sam, faintly.

"What makes you look so white?"

"I—I've got a lame foot."

"And I know where you got it?" thundered Chester, seizing him by the shirt-collar. "It is just as I thought, last night."

"Stop, Chester,—don't be rash!" cried Mr. Royden. "Sam, tell the truth, now, about that horse."

"I fell off," blubbered Sam.

"You incorrigible, lying rascal!" ejaculated Chester. "Why didn't you say so last night?"

"I couldn't help it," and Sam wiped his face with his sleeve. "I didn't run him—and—and he got frightened."

"That has nothing to do with the question. Why didn't you tell the truth, the first thing?"

"Cause—I wasn't looking out-and he was going on a slow trot—when a stump by the side of the road scar'd him—and I fell off."

"But what did you lie about it for?" demanded Chester, fiercely.

"I was afraid I'd git a licking," muttered Sam.

"And now you'll get two of 'em, as you richly deserve. If father don't give 'em to you, I will."

"Hush, Chester, I'll attend to him," said Mr. Royden, more calm than usual on such occasions. "James, put the saddle on Old Boy. One of us must ride after the stray horse, and see where he is to be found. Sam, go and finish that churning, and prepare for a settlement."

With a sinking heart, the rogue obeyed. Mark went off, leading his colt; Chester rode to hunt up Frank; Mr. Royden proceeded to the field, and Father Brighthopes sought the privacy of his room to write. The boys clamored a little while at his door, then went cheerfully away to play with Lizzie in the garden.

X.

COMPANY.

It was near sundown when Chester returned, having succeeded in finding Frank, and returned him to his owner.

Meanwhile Father Brighthopes had had a long talk with the distressed and remorseful Sam. The old man's kindness and sympathy touched the lad's heart more than anything had ever done before. He could not endure the appeals to his better nature, to his sense of right, and to his plain reason, with which the clergyman represented the folly and wickedness of lying.

"I am sure," said Father Brighthopes, in conclusion, "that, with as much real good in you as you have, the falsehood has cost you more pain than half a dozen floggings."

Sam acknowledged the fact.

"Then, aside from the wickedness of the thing, is not falsehood unwise? Don't you always feel better to be frank and honest, let the consequences be what they will?"

"I knowed it, all the time," sobbed Sam, "but I darsn't tell the truth! I wished I had told it, but I darsn't!"

"Then we may conclude that lying is usually the mark of a coward. Men would tell the truth, if they were not afraid to."

"I s'pose so. But I never thought of what you say before. When I lie, I git licked, and folks tell me I shall go to hell. I don't mind that much; but when you talk to me as you do, I think I never will tell another lie, as long as I live,—never!"

Sam now confessed to all the circumstances of the last night's disaster, and, at the old man's suggestion, repeated the same to Mr. and Mrs. Royden. He asked for pardon; and promised to tell no more lies, and to keep out of mischief as much as he could.

He was so softened, so penitent and earnest, that even the severe Mrs. Royden was inclined to forgive him. Her husband did more. He talked kindly to the young offender, declaring his willingness to overlook everything, and to do as well by Sam as by his own children, if he would be a good and honest boy. The latter was so overcome that he cried for half an hour about the affair in the shed; that is to say, until the cat made her appearance, wearing a portion of the old twine harness, and he thought he would divert his mind by making her draw a brick.

"In mischief again!" exclaimed Mr. Royden, coming suddenly upon him.

"No, sir!" cried Sam, promptly, letting pussy go.

"What were you doing?"

"You see, this butter won't come, and I've been churning stiddy on it all day——"

"What has that to do with the cat?" demanded Mr. Royden.

"Nothing; only I expect to have to go to help milk the cows in a little while; and I was afraid she would jump up on the churn, and lick the cream, while I was gone; so I thought I'd tie a brick to her neck."

Mr. Royden laughed secretly, and went away.

"That was only a white lie," muttered Sam. "Darn it all! I've got so used to fibbing, I can't help it. I didn't think then, or I wouldn't have said what I did."

The boy really felt badly to think he had not the courage to speak the truth, and made a new resolution, to be braver in future.

The relief of mind which followed the bursting of the clouds over his head brought a keen appetite; and he remembered that he had eaten nothing but an apple or two since breakfast. Hunger impelled him to apply himself to the churn; five minutes of industrious labor finished the task, and he was prepared to go to supper with the family.

In the evening a number of young people, living in the neighborhood, called, in honor of Chester's return from school. The parlor was opened for the "company," and the "old folks" occupied the sitting-room.

Chester was very lively, for he was fond of sociability, and loved to be admired for his grace and wit; but he seemed at length to find the conversation of his old acquaintances insipid.

"Father Brighthopes," he said, gayly, entering the sitting-room, "I wish you would go in and teach our friends some better amusement than kissing games. I am heartily sick of them."

"If Jane Dustan was here, I guess you would like them," said Lizzie, who had preferred to listen to the clergyman's stories, rather than go into the parlor.

Her eyes twinkled with fun; but Chester looked displeased.

"It's nothing but 'Who'll be my judge?' 'Measure off three yards of tape with so and so, and cut it;' 'Make a sugar-bowl, and put three lumps of sugar in it, with Julia;' 'Go to Rome and back again;' 'Bow to the prettiest, kneel to the wittiest, and kiss the one you love best' and such nonsense."

"Ches has got above these good old plays, since he has been at the academy!" and Lizzie laughed again, mischievously. "You used to like kissing well enough."

"So I do now," said he, giving her a smack, by way of illustration; "but stolen waters are the sweetest. Some public kissing I have done to-night has been like taking medicine."

His remarks were cut short by the entrance of a tall young lady, with thin curls and homely teeth. She affected unusual grace of manner; her smile showed an attempt to be fascinating, and her language was peculiarly select, and lispingly pronounced.

"What! are you here?" she cried, pretending to be surprised at seeing Chester. "I thought I left you in the parlor."

Chester smiled at the innocent little deception her modesty led her to practise, and, as a means of getting rid of her, introduced her to the old clergyman.

"I believe I had a glimpthe of you, this forenoon," said Miss Smith, with an exquisite smile. "You called at our houthe, I believe. Father was very thorry he wasn't at home. You mutht call again. You mutht come too, next time, Mrs. Royden. You owe mother two visits. What gloriouth weather we have now! I never thaw tho magnifithent a thunthet as there was this evening. Did you obtherve it, Mithter Royden?" addressing Chester.

"It was very fine."

"It was thurpathingly lovely! What thuperb cloudth! Will you be tho good,"—Miss Smith somewhat changed her tone,—"will you be tho good as to help me to a glath of water?"

Chester was returning to the parlor, and she was just in time to catch him. He could not refuse, and she followed him into the kitchen.

"She has stuck to him like a burr, all the evening," whispered Lizzie. "He can't stir a step, but she follows him; and he hates her dreadfully."

Mrs. Royden reprimanded the girl for speaking so freely, to which she replied, "she didn't care; it was true."

Chester was not half so long getting the water as Miss Smith was drinking it. She sipped and talked, and sipped and talked again, in her most dangerously fascinating manner, until he was on the point of leaving her to digest the beverage alone.

"Theems to me you're in a terrific hurry," she cried. "I hope you an't afraid of me. Good-neth! I am as harmleth as a kitten."

Miss Smith showed her disagreeable teeth, and shook her consumptive curls, with great self-satisfaction. When Chester confessed that he was afraid of her, she declared herself "infinitely amathed."

"But I don't believe it. Thomebody in the parlor has a magnetic influence over you," she said, archly. "Now, confeth!"

On returning to the sitting-room, they found that two or three other young ladies had followed them from the parlor.

"What a magnet thomebody is!" remarked Miss Smith. "I wonder who it can be."

"I should think you might tell, since you were the first to be attracted from the parlor," remarked Miss Julia Keller.

"Oh, I came for a glath of water." Miss Smith shook her curls again, and turned to Father Brighthopes. "I am ecthethively delighted to make your acquaintanth, thir, for I am immenthly fond of minithters."

The old man smiled indulgently, and replied that he thought younger clergymen than himself might please her best.

"Young or old, it makes no differenth," said she. "Our minithter is a delightfully fathinating man, and he is only twenty-five."

"Fascinating?"

"Oh, yeth! He is extremely elegant in his dreth, and his manners are perfectly charming. His language is ectheedingly pretty, and thometimes gorgeouthly thublime."

"I wish you would let Father Brighthopes finish the story he was telling me," said Lizzie, bluntly.

"A story?" cried Miss Smith. "Thertainly. Let me thit down and hear it too. I'm pathionately fond of stories."

In taking a seat she was careful to place herself in close proximity to Chester, who was engaged in conversation with Julia.

The clergyman resumed his narrative, in which not only Lizzie, but her father and mother also, had become interested. It was a reminiscence of his own early life. He told of afflictions, trials, all sorts of perplexities and struggles with the world, in experiencing which his heart had been purified, and his character had been formed.

As he proceeded, his audience increased. The company came from the parlor and gathered around him, until the scene of the kissing games was quite deserted. Only one person remained behind. Hepsy, with her face behind the window-curtains, was sobbing.

Chester thought of her, and, stealing out of the sitting-room, to find her, stood for some seconds by her side, before she was aware of his presence.

XI.

THE LOVELY AND THE UNLOVED.

With all his vain and superficial qualities, the young man had a kind heart. He thought of Hepsy most when she was most neglected by others. He knelt down by her where she sat, and took her thin hand in his.

"Come, you mustn't feel bad to-night," said he gently.

She was startled; her heart beat wildly, and she hastened to wipe her tears.

"Has anything unpleasant happened?" he asked.

Hepsy tried to smother her sobs, but they burst forth afresh.

"I've come for you to go and hear Father Brighthopes tell his stories," pursued Chester. "Will you come?"

She was unable to answer.

"It's the best joke of the season!" he continued, cheerfully. "Our company made the sourest faces in the world, when they learned that the old clergyman was to be within hearing. 'Oh, we couldn't have any fun,' they said. They wished him a thousand miles away. And now they have left their silly sports to listen to him."

"I was much happier out there than after you brought me in here," murmured Hepsy, in a broken voice.

"I wish, then, I had left you there," rejoined Chester. "But I thought you would enjoy the company, and made you come in."

"I couldn't play with the rest," said the unhappy girl.

"Why not? You could, if you had only thought so."

Hepsy smiled, with touching sadness.

"Who would have kissed me? I must have such a hideous face! Who could?"

She cried again; and Chester, feeling deeply pained by her sufferings, kissed her cheek.

"I could; and I have kissed you hundreds of times, as you know; and I hope to as many more. There are worse faces than yours to kiss here to-night."

"Oh, you are always so good—so good!" murmured Hepsy, with gushing tears.

"Now, tell me what has occurred to make you feel bad," insisted her cousin, very kindly.

The poor girl required much urging, but at length she confessed.

"Josephine Smith called me stupid and sour, because I sat in the corner watching the rest."

"Josephine Smith did?" cried Chester, indignantly. "But never mind. Don't cry about it. Do you know, you are as much better—brighter than she is, as light is brighter and better than darkness? You are ten times more agreeable. She has nothing to compare with your pure soul."

"You are so kind to say so! But others do not think it, if you do," murmured Hepsy. "Oh!" she exclaimed, with a burst of passionate grief, "it was cruel in her, to be Henry Wilbur's judge, and sentence him to kiss me!"

"Did she?"

"Yes; then they all laughed, and she ran out in the sitting-room after you; and the rest thought it such a joke, that anybody should have to kiss me!"

Hepsy spoke very bitterly, and Chester's blood boiled with indignation.

"I can't believe they were making fun at your expense," said he, in a suppressed tone. "If I thought they were so heartless——"

"Oh, they did not know how I would feel about it, I am sure," interrupted the girl.

"Did Henry laugh?"

"No,"—with a melancholy smile,—"it was no laughing matter with him!—No!—Henry was very gentlemanly about it. He did not hesitate, although I saw him turn all sorts of colors; but came right up to do penance, like a hero. I thanked him in my heart for the good will he showed; but I would not let him kiss me, for I knew it would be disagreeable to him."

"That is all your imagination," cried Chester, cheerily. "So think no more about it. Remember that there is one who loves you, at any rate, let what will happen."

"I know there is one very good to me," replied Hepsy, with emotion. "Oh, you don't know what a comfort your kindness is! I would not—I could not—live without it! I sometimes think everybody hates me but you."

"You are too sensitive, Coz. But since you imagine such things, I'll tell you what: when I am married, you shall come and live with me. How would you like that?"

A quick pain shot through Hepsy's heart. A faintness came over her. Her cold hand dropped from Chester's, and fell by her side.

"I will tell my wife all about how good you are," he continued, in a tone of encouragement; "and she must love you too. She cannot help it. And we will always be like brother and sister to you."

He kissed her white cheek, and went on hopefully:

"I have a secret for you, which I have not even revealed to Sarah or James. I will tell it to you, because I know how it will please you." He took her hand again. "The truth is, I am—engaged."

Hepsy did not breathe; her hand was like stone.

"To a glorious girl, Coz. Oh, you cannot help loving her. You can form no idea how sweet and beautiful she is. She's tall as Sarah, but more slender and graceful. You should see her curls! When she speaks, her soft eyes——But what is the matter?"

"The air—is—close!" gasped Hepsy.

"You are fainting!"

"No; I am—better now."

Hepsy made a desperate effort, and conquered her emotion.

Chester, always delicately thoughtful of the feelings of others, except when his enthusiasm carried him away, proceeded with his description, every word of which burned like fire in the poor girl's heart. And he—fond soul!—deemed that he was pouring the balm of comfort and the precious ointment of joy upon her spirit! For how could he pause to consider and know that every charm he ascribed to the professor's daughter demonstrated to the unhappy creature more and more vividly, and with terrible force, that she was utterly unlovely and unblest? Contrasted with the enchanting valley of his love, how arid and desolate a desert seemed her life!

Meanwhile Miss Josephine Smith had early discovered the absence of Chester from the circle, and looked about to find him. She could not rest where he was not. Becoming thirsty again, she made another errand to the water-pail in the kitchen; but she drank only of the cup of disappointment. As soon, therefore, as she could do so, without making her conduct marked, she sought her loadstar in the parlor.

"How dreadfully tholitary you are to-night!" she exclaimed, with a smile which showed all her teeth. "Do extricate yourself from that frightfully lonethome corner."

She suddenly discovered that, still beyond the chair in which Chester was seated, there was another, not unoccupied.

"Ho, ho! what charmer have you there? You are getting to be an awfully dethperate flirt, Chethter Royden. Oh! nobody but Hepthy!"

"Nobody but my good cousin Hepsy," replied Chester, coldly.

"Dear me! I wouldn't have thuthpicioned you could be tho fathinated with her!" she cried, in a tone she deemed cuttingly sarcastic.

"Miss Smith," said Chester, quietly, "you need not think, because you happen to have peculiar charms of person, that no others have graces of a different sort."

"Oh, what an egregiouth flatterer!" returned Josephine Smith, shaking her meager curls. "Come"—and she boldly seated herself,—"let me know what your interesting conversation is about."

"We were just speaking of going into the sitting-room," answered the young man, rising.

He stooped, and whispered to Hepsy.

"Leave me alone a few minutes, then I will come," she murmured.

He pressed her hand, and walked away.

"Don't you thuppose, now," said Miss Smith, following, and taking his arm familiarly, "I think you have grown wonderfully handthome, thince you have been at school?"

Chester made some nonsensical reply, and, having conducted her to the sitting-room, coolly turned about, and reëntered the parlor.

Hepsy's face was hidden in her hands. She was weeping convulsively.

"I thought what I said would make you happy," he whispered.

Hepsy started; she choked back her sobs; she wiped her streaming eyes.

"It should make me happy," she articulated, in broken tones. "But,—leave me alone a little while—I shall feel better soon."

"You are too much alone," said Chester. "You must come with me now."

"My eyes are so red!"

"The company is so much interested in Father Brighthopes' story, that nobody will see you. Come!—you must."

Chester was obliged to add gentle force to persuasion, to accomplish his kind design. Finally, she told him to go before, and she would come directly. He took his place in the circle around the old clergyman, and presently she glided to an obscure position, behind Mr. Royden's chair. There, unobserved, she indulged in her melancholy thoughts, until they were diverted by Father Brighthopes' remarks.

"Thus, my friends," said he, "you see that I have reason to bless the wisdom that rained upon my head the grievous sufferings of which I complained so bitterly at the time. Truly, whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth. Steel gets its temper from the furnace. What is gold good for, unless it has been fused and hammered? All our trials are teachers; then temptations form themselves into a sort of examining committee, to see how much we have learned by the discipline,—to see how strong we are. If all our worldly circumstances were pleasant and smooth, who would not be contented with them? But storms come; winds blow, and rains pour; then we turn our eyes inwardly. When earth is dark, we look up. When men prove false, we remember the Friend who never fails us. In the gloomy valley of the present, we joyfully turn our sight to the soft blue hills of an infinite future. Clouds now and then overcast the sky; but the sun shines forever. So there is an eternal sun of Love pouring floods of blessed light upon our souls continually, notwithstanding the misty sorrows that sometimes float between, and cast their momentary shades.

"Yes," continued the old man, warming and glowing with the theme, "I bless God for all I have suffered, as all of you will, some day,"—his clear, bright eye fell upon the miserable Hepsy,—"when you look back and see the uses of affliction. It seems to me that the happiest souls in heaven must be those who have suffered most here; patiently, I mean, and not with continual murmurings, which harden and embitter the heart. Even in this life, the poor and afflicted exteriorly may always, and do oftenest, I believe, enjoy interior happiness and peace, with which the superficial pleasures of life cannot be compared. The great secret it, Love!—love to God,—love to man,—and a serene and thankful temper.

"But I find that my story has relapsed into a sermon," said Father Brighthopes, smiling. "You were all so attentive, that I quite forgot myself. I hope I have not been dull."

"Oh, no! No, indeed!" cried half a dozen voices.

All agreed that they could hear him talk all night. They had never been so well instructed in the use to be made of afflictions. They had never seen so clearly the beauty of a serene Christian life.

"It's all excethively pretty!" said Miss Smith.

"Well, I am glad if you have been entertained," said the old man, with moist but happy eyes. "Good-night! good-night! God bless you all!"

His fervent benediction was very touching. More than one eye was wet, as it watched him going to his room. There was not much more wild gayety among the little company that evening, but every heart seemed to have been softened and made deeply happy by the old man's lesson.

Hepsy stole away to her room. His words still echoed in her soul. They stirred its depths; they warmed her, they cheered her strangely. All night long her tears rained upon her pillow,—when she slept, as when she lay awake,—but she was no longer utterly wretched. A ray had stolen in upon the darkness of her misery.

"Love!" she repeated to herself. "Love to God, and love to our neighbor. But love must be unselfish. It must be self-sacrificing. Oh, Lord!" she prayed, with anguish, "purify my bad heart! purify it! purify it! purify it!"

She felt herself a broken-hearted child, humbled in the dust. But a feeling of calmness came over her. Her hot and throbbing heart grew cool and still. Angels had touched her with their golden wings; and her spirit seemed to brighten and expand with newly-developed powers of patience, endurance and love.

Meanwhile, Chester was penning a passionate letter to his affianced, wholly absorbed, and forgetful even of the existence of poor Hepsy.

XII.

DOMESTIC ECONOMY.

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 is to 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 is very willing and industrious."

"She works too hard even now, wife—you must see 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.

XIII.

TALK BY THE WAY.

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 thoughts
Benighted walks beneath the noonday sun.'

A gloomy heart sees gloom in everything. Truly Milton has said,

'The mind is its own place, and in itself
Can 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.

XIV.

DEACON DUSTAN'S POLICY.

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.

XV.

THE PHILOSOPHY OF A WOODEN LEG.

"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 my last at 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.

XVI.

GOING TO MEETING.

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!"