“Well, Mother,” cried Mr. Worden, with a little impatience, at what he fancied mummery, “I am dying to hear what has happened, that I may put the more faith in what is to happen. Tell me something of the crop of wheat, I put into the ground, last autumn; how many bushels I sowed, and on how many acres; whether on new land, or on old?”
“Ay, ay, you have sowed!—and you have sowed!” answered the woman, on a high key, for her; “but your seed fell among tares, and on the flinty ground; and you'll never reap a soul among 'em all! Broadcast may you sow—but narrow will be your harvest.”
The Rev. Mr. Worden gave a loud hem—placed his arms akimbo—and seemed determined to brazen it out; though, I could easily perceive, that he felt excessively awkward.
“How is it, with my cattle? and shall I send much mutton to market, this season?”
“A wolf, in sheep's clothing!” muttered Doortje. “No—no—you like hot suppers, and ducks, and lectures to cooks more than gathering in the harvest of the Lord!”
“Come, this is folly, woman!” exclaimed the parson, angrily. “Give me some common sense, for my good French crown. What do you see, in that knave of diamonds, that you study its face so closely?”
“A loping Dominie!—a loping Dominie!” screamed the hag, several times, rather than exclaiming aloud. “See!—he runs, for life; but Beelzebub will overtake him!”
There was a sudden, and dead pause; for the Rev. Mr. Worden had caught up his hat, and darted from the room; quitting the house, as if already busily engaged in the race alluded to. Guert shook his head, and looked serious; but, perceiving that the woman was already tranquil, and was actually shuffling the cards anew, in his behalf, he advanced to learn his fate. I saw the eyes of Doortje fastened keenly on him, as he took his stand near the table, and the corners of her mouth curled in a significant smile. What that meant, exactly, I have never been able to ascertain.
“I suppose, you wish to know something of the past, like all the rest of them,” mumbled the woman, “so that you may have faith in what you hear about the future?”
“Why, Mother,” answered Guert, passing his hand through his own fine head of natural curls, and speaking a little hastily, “I do not know that it is any great matter about the past. What is done, is done; and there is an end of it. A young man may not wish to hear of such things, at the moment, perhaps, when he is earnestly bent on doing better. We are all young, once in our lives, and we can grow old only after having been so.”