A little later he stood by the old gate watching the great yellow moon come up, and digging his red fists into his eyes now and then to wipe away some stray tears of shame, indignation and grief that still gathered there. This was not a very nice world anyhow, he decided with a queer aching spot at his heart. Almost it seemed as if he had asked for bread and received a stone—a sharp heavy stone at that.
Indoors Mr. Mitchel had expressed very distinctly his opinion of the carelessness and obtuseness that could have caused such a blunder, and the “awkwardness of the whole thing,” and in no little vexation was trying to find some means of remedy.
“I might write a note and explain, but then—I declare it’s the most awkward disagreeable thing I ever knew! Such a stupid blunder.”
“Papa,” interposed the slow, wondering voice of Bud, “I didn’t know there could be any mistakes up there.”
“Up where, child?”
“In heaven. Kip prayed you’d bring something for his minister—’cause I heard him—behind the wood-pile,” said Bud with slow emphasis. “I thought that made the chair come. I’m most sure ’twasn’t any mistake, papa.”
Mr. Mitchel pushed aside pen and paper, put on his hat and walked out. He really did not know the best way out of the difficulty. It was very vexatious, and in his perplexity he journeyed towards the parsonage. When he came in sight of the house he paused. What did he intend to do? Go there when others were making their offerings, and explain that he had not wished to show any friendship or appreciation, and wanted to take back what had been proffered through mistake? Certainly not! He turned, but at that moment some one joined him.
“Ah, Mr. Mitchel! Just going in? That was a generous gift of yours—exactly the thing for poor Mrs. Clay.”
Others came with similar comment. There was no chance to say anything, and scarcely knowing why or how, Mr. Mitchel found himself in the well-filled room, saw the sweet, pale face, with its smile of welcome for all, looking out from the cushions of the new chair, and felt the quick warm grateful clasp of the minister’s hand. Something in look and clasp and murmured words brought a sudden throb to Mr. Mitchel’s heart, a moisture to his eye.
Then, before he had time to recover from his bewilderment, some one had called on him to “make a few remarks,” and others echoed the request, and he found himself pushed forward to the front and heard his own voice saying, “How much cause all had to value Mr. Clay’s work in the village,” and expressing the hope that he might “enjoy these simple offerings as tokens of esteem and friendship.” Aye, and he meant it too, for catching the spirit of those around him, and swiftly comprehending more of the good man’s life and work than he had ever done before, he only regretted that he had not sent the offering of his own free will and pleasure.