“It is their nature; but with us it is not so easy and natural,” I said.
“How so? it is our privilege to be guided and supported. The Saviour is often represented under the figure of a gardener, his garden the world, and the plants in it the human beings for whom he died. If we are his servants, the afflictions and privations we are called upon to endure are only prunings from his hand. Neither should we ask why; but turning our gaze in the direction specified, seek to fulfil his purpose.”
“And if we try, does he see and notice our effort?”
“Yes, Marston, the fall of a sparrow is noted by him; and there is nothing connected with our well-being but interests him. He is moved with a feeling of compassion when he looks upon our suffering; and so great is his love, that if he could spare us the least pang he would do so.”
By this time I had finished the asparagus-bed, while the rows of lettuce stood neatly defined, and the delicate tendrils of the pea-vines began twisting themselves about for the support I had placed within their reach. Mr. Harlan suggested that one walk needed to be widened, and another to be gravelled. It was Saturday, and I took the wheelbarrow and crossed the pasture to the brook.
While shovelling gravel, with my coat off and sleeves rolled up, I heard shouts and voices. A light wagon, drawn by two spirited horses, and filled by half a dozen boys, was coming down the road from Terryville. Richard Farden was driving, and when opposite me, he stopped.
“We are going down to see Frank Clavers, and then on a fishing excursion up the river. There is room enough for one more; put down your sleeves and jump in; we’ve plenty of hooks and lines.”
“A grand treat it will be,” cried several from the back seat; “you had better come.”
“We shall have a splendid supper,” added Richard, “and then home by moonlight. Such a chance you don’t get every day. Come on.”
I longed to avail myself of the privilege. I had not had a ride, save on horseback, for a long time. And then it was to see Frank; and perhaps I could stop for a moment at Miss Grimshaw’s, and see Jennie. Still I had no time. Mrs. Harlan was expecting me back, and there stood the wheelbarrow half-full of gravel. “No,” I answered, “I cannot go. I have not the time; drive on;” and I took my shovel, not daring to look up till the handsome turnout was out of sight.