The warm, bright sun of early April made the Sabbath morning beautiful. Here and there patches of dainty green could be seen, and in some sheltered, sunny spots the daring bloom of the crocus had thrust itself into view—purple, yellow, and white.
On that day there was no happier home in the world than the parsonage. Mr. Flint had fully recovered; his wife had returned and was bustling nervously about trying to make up for lost time. Barbara and Will were there, and, in their undemonstrative way, very happy.
"What a beautiful morning for all of us," said Mr. Flint, as he got up from the breakfast-table and went to the window. "Spring has come without—and within. Ah! if I had known, if I had been awakened earlier in life—"
Barbara left her place at the table, ran quickly to him, and gently placed her fingers on his lips.
"Remember, you promised," she said, smilingly.
"Yes, Barbara, but I expect to break my promise many—many times. When a man has been born again how can you expect him to be silent? The world is all new to me, Barbara. Try to imagine what I have lost in my narrow, high-walled life. I must see everything; I must babble like a child if I will. Yet you, Barbara, modest girl that you are,—the one who saved my body, and put peace into my soul,—demand that I keep silence." Mr. Flint spoke in a half-serious, half-humourous way, but they understood, and rejoiced at the change in his manner—and the man.
Barbara and Mrs. Flint began clearing the table, the minister retired to his study, while Will paced the sitting-room, deep in thought. When the door-bell rang a moment later Will answered its summons. It was Mrs. Stout, out of breath and flushed by her walk, but smiling.
"Mornin', Willie," she puffed.
"Good morning, Mrs. Stout; come in."
"Ain't late, am I?" she asked, anxiously, as she stepped into the hall and sat down in the nearest chair.