Part 29 (1/2)

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

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

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

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

”Drive on,” answered the farmer, pitching on the last of a large hay-c.o.c.k.

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

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

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

Royden.

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

”I can help you just as well as not, if you think there is any danger,”

rejoined Mark.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

”Afraid!”

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

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

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

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

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