THE HARVEST
Tom went straight to his mother that morning and told her
everything--the party he had gone to, his discontent, his desire for
company and fun, and excitement, taking the money, and the events of
the previous night.
Mrs. Motherwell saw her boy in a new light as she listened, and Tom had
a glorified vision of his mother as she clasped him in her arms crying:
"It is our fault Tom, mine and your father's; we have tried to make you
into a machine like we are ourselves, and forgot that you had a soul,
but it's not too late yet, Tom. I hate the money, too, if it's only to
be hoarded up; the money we sent to Polly's mother has given me more
pleasure than all the rest that we have."
"Mother," Tom said, "how do you suppose that money happened to be in
that overcoat pocket?"
"I don't know," she answered; "your father must have left it there when
he wore it last. It looks as if the devil himself put it there to tempt
you, Tom."
When his father came back from Winnipeg, Tom made to him a full
confession as he had to his mother; and was surprised to find that his
father had for him not one word of reproach. Since sending the money to
Polly's mother Sam had found a little of the blessedness of giving, and
it had changed his way of looking at things, in some measure at least.
He had made up his mind to give the money back to the church, and now
when he found that it had gone, and gone in such a way, he felt vaguely
that it was a punishment for his own meanness, and in a small measure,
at least, he was grateful that no worse evil had resulted from it.
"Father, did you put that money there?" Tom asked.
"Yes, I did Tom," he answered. "I ought to be ashamed of myself for
being so careless, too."
"It just seemed as if it was the devil himself," Tom said. "I had no
intention of drinking when I took out that money."
"Well, Tom," his father said, with a short laugh, "I guess the devil
had a hand in it, he was in me quite a bit when I put it there, I kin
tell ye."
The next Sunday morning Samuel Motherwell, his wife and son, went to
church. Sam placed on the plate an envelope containing fifty dollars.
On the following morning Sam had just cut two rounds with the binder
when the Reverend Hugh Grantley drove into the field. Sam stopped his
binder and got down.
"Well, Mr. Motherwell," the minister said, holding out his hand
cordially as he walked over to where Sam stood, "how did it happen?"
Sam grasped his hand warmly.
"Ask Tom," he said, nodding his head toward his son who was stooking
the grain a little distance away. "It is Tom's story."
Mr. Grantley did ask Tom, and Tom told him; and there in the sunshine,
with the smell of the ripe grain in their nostrils as the minister
helped him to carry the sheaves, a new heaven and a new earth were
opened to Tom, and a new life was born within him, a life of godliness
and of brotherly kindness, whose blessed influence has gone far beyond
the narrow limits of that neighbourhood.
It was nearly noon when the minister left him and drove home through
the sun-flooded grain fields, with a glorified look on his face as one
who had seen the heavens opened.
Just before he turned into the valley of the Souris, he stopped his
horse, and looked back over the miles and miles of rippling gold. The
clickety-click-click of many binders came to his ears. Oh what a day it
was! all sunshine and blue sky! Below him the river glinted through the
trees, and the railway track shimmered like a silver ribbon, and as he
drove into the winding valley, the Reverend Hugh Grantley sang, despite
his Cameronian blood, sang like a Methodist:
Praise God from whom all blessings flow,
Praise Him all creatures here below,
Praise Him above, ye heavenly host,
Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.