"Which you must learn," added Father Brighthopes, with tender earnestness.
"I am sorry, Mark, I can't do anything for your colt," observed Mr. Royden, who, to change the disagreeable topic, had caught the animal, and led him by the halter to the spot where the jockey was sitting. "I wish I could."
"I don't deserve it," muttered the other, with his head down. "It is good enough for me. Ches was right. I knocked that eye out with the butt of my whip."
He gnashed his teeth again, and began to tear his hair with remorse.
Father Brighthopes whispered to Chester and his father, who presently went away together, leaving him alone with Mark. They returned to the hay-field. It was noon before they saw the clergyman again. He arrived home from talking with Mark just as the mowers were washing their hot faces at the well, in preparation for dinner.
And still Mark Wheeler sat upon the trough, with his face in his hands; no longer gnashing his teeth and tearing his hair, but sobbing as only strong men sob.
XXIII.
SATURDAY AFTERNOON.
The fine weather continued during the week. Literally Mr. Royden and his men "made hay while the sun shone." Saturday came, and they were astonished at what was done.