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.