Children clapped their hands and ran to meet him; girls greeted him with offerings of flowers; and when he had dismounted, both old and young gathered about him, lisping him a welcome and shaking him by the hand. There was nobody like Dominie Payson, and the love these people bore him, and now gave him so many expressions of, was true and heartfelt. And when he had kissed the children, and exchanged greetings and kind words with their parents, he proceeded into the church, followed by his flock. His sermon was, perhaps, one of the oddest ever listened to, for after returning thanks for the bountiful harvest, and extending on the goodness of God, and advising his flock to stick firmly to their farms and their religion, that being the only true way of getting to Heaven, he turned his guns against Mr. and Mrs. Chapman, though he never once mentioned their names. He urged his flock to keep in mind always how much better off they were, how much more happy they were than those men who came to town with the devil and a number of strange religions in their heads. Such people, he added, always had the devil for a friend; and it was the devil who assisted them to get poor people's money. And with this money they dressed their wives in silks and satins, built big houses, and lived like people who were very proud and never paid their debts, nor did a day's work on the roads. It was all well enough for these men to talk of Heaven and put on pious faces, but Heaven would take no notice of them while they gave themselves up to the temptations of the devil and built steamboats and founded railroads, to kill honest people with, and ruin the country.
"My friends," said the Dominie, resting for a moment, and then charging his guns for another fire at Chapman, "you have seen a man ready to sell his soul for money enough to build a steamboat. Now he wants to build a railroad to get you out of the world quicker." The Dominie shook his head, wiped his brow, and again paused for a few seconds. "Let them dress their wives in satins and silks, let them ruin their country with their steamboats and railroads, let them build their big houses, go to the city, get proud, waste all their money in folly and vice, and return among honest people with a sheriff at their heels, because they don't pay nobody—but don't you go and do it. My friends—there will be an account to settle with these people who swell themselves up so big, when roasting-day comes. You that have wives—look to them. Keep their hearts pure and simple. Don't let them spend your money in silks and satins. If you do, the sheriff locks up your door and puts the key in his pocket." Thus the Dominie concluded, reminding his hearers that, as it was Harvest-Sunday, they must not forget to be liberal with their sixpences when the box came round.
His hearers were greatly delighted, and declared they had not heard him preach so good a sermon for many a day. And when he came down from the pulpit they congratulated him, and sundry extra pecks of wheat were promised as a reward for the light he had favored them with.
The day wore away pleasantly, and when evening came, when the gleams of the setting sun tipped the surrounding hills with golden light, and dusky shadows were creeping up the valley, the reader, if he had looked in at Hanz Toodleburg's little house, might have seen one of those quaint but pleasant pictures which are a fit ending of such a day.
There, grouped around his table, sat the Dominie, Doctor Critchel, Bright the inn-keeper, and the schoolmaster, for Hanz had invited them to sup with him, and Angeline had prepared the best she had to set before them. There, too, was Tite's empty chair. There it stood, silent and touching, all the pleasant memories it once contained made sad now by the mystery that enshrouded his long absence. There was his plate, and his knife and fork, all so bright and clean, set as regularly as if he were home, and guarded so tenderly. The eloquence of that vacant chair, appealing so directly to the finer sensibilities of every one present, left a deep and sad impression. Supper was nearly over before any of the guests had courage to refer to it. The Dominie at length raised his spectacles and addressing Angeline, said: "Heaven gives to every house its idol. We have been blessed to-day, and made happy. It will yet please Heaven to bring back the idol of this house, and fill that empty chair. I am sure we shall all be glad when the boy gets home."
"When he does, there will be such a time at my house," interposed the inn-keeper, nodding his head approvingly. "There's the parlor for him to do his courting in. And one of the prettiest little sweethearts is waiting to give him such a welcome. God bless her—she isn't a bit like the rest of them Chapmans—she isn't."
"My school don't keep the day he comes home," rejoined the schoolmaster, helping himself to another piece of pumpkin pie.
The mention of Tite's name filled old Hanz's eyes with tears. He buried his face in his hands, and remained silent for several minutes, overcome by his feelings. As soon as he had recovered control of them, he wiped the tears from his eyes, and replied in broken sentences: "I vas sho happy ven mine Tite, mine poor poy Tite vas home. Peers as if now, mine poor poy he never comes home no more, he never prings shoy into mine house no more."
"Always look on the best side of things, neighbor Hanz," replied the Dominie.
"Yah, put I gets sho old now."