Mark found a rake by the stack; but still he lingered. He had not seen the clergyman since Monday, and he appeared desirous, yet somewhat ashamed, to speak with him.
"How do you do to-day, friend Mark?" Father Brighthopes said, reading his mind.
The jockey came up to him, where he lay under the stack, and gave him his hand.
"I am well, I thank you," he replied, in a low tone. "I was afraid to speak to you."
"Afraid!"
"Yes, Father. I know you must despise me and hate me."
"No, my son; you misjudge me," answered the old man, with a kindly smile, sitting up, and pressing Mark's hand, as the latter stooped down to him. "On the contrary I am drawn toward you, Mark. There is much in you to love; only overcome these besetting faults, which are your worst enemies."
"I shall try—thank you,"—Mark's voice quivered with emotion. "I haven't forgot what you said to me t'other day. I shall not forget it."
"Do not!" exclaimed the clergyman, earnestly, smiling through the mist that gathered in his eyes. "Go; and God bless you!" he added, tenderly.
The jockey turned away, humble, and much affected. When he came up to where Chester was at work, he spoke to him in a friendly tone, and asked where he should commence.