“What shall I do?” said Rollo. “What shall I do? Why did I not finish it on Saturday?”
He dressed himself, went down stairs, and looked out at the clouds. There was no prospect of any thing but rain. He ate his breakfast, and then went out, and looked again. Rain, still. He studied and [pg 119]recited his morning lessons, and then again looked out. Rain, rain. He could not help hoping it would clear up before night; but, as it continued so steadily, he began to be seriously afraid that, after all, he should lose his garden.
He spent the day very anxiously and unhappily. He knew, from what his father had said, that he could not hope to have another day allowed, and that all would depend on his being able to do the work before night.
At last, about the middle of the afternoon, Rollo came into the room where his father and mother were sitting, and told his father that it did not rain a great deal then, and asked him if he might not go out and finish his weeding; he did not care, he said, if he did get wet.
“But your getting wet will not injure you alone—it will spoil your clothes.”
“Besides, you will take cold,” said his mother.
“Perhaps he would not take cold, if he were to put on dry clothes as soon as he leaves working,” said his father; “but wetting his clothes would put you to a [pg 120]good deal of trouble. No; I'd rather you would not go, on the whole, Rollo.”
Rollo turned away with tears in his eyes, and went out into the kitchen. He sat down on a bench in the shed where Jonas was working, and looked out towards the garden. Jonas pitied him, and would gladly have gone and done the work for him; but he knew that his father would not allow that. At last, a sudden thought struck him.
“Rollo,” said he, “you might perhaps find some old clothes in the garret, which it would not hurt to get wet.”
Rollo jumped up, and said, “Let us go and see.”