The next morning the sun peeped through a dull, hazy atmosphere, looked, and was gone, showing occasional glimpses of his face till nearly church time, when the clouds began to gather and roll themselves into inky blackness, and rain seemed inevitable.
“Put the oxen to the cart,” said Mr. Wyman; “that hay will be ruined.”
“But, pa, it is Sunday,” said Mrs. Wyman.
“Well, what if it is? You are ready to go to church, and the wagon is at the door; go on, I shall stop for the hay. It is just as much a duty to save our property as to do any thing else. We are told to be diligent in business;” and the farmer exchanged his Sunday coat for his work-day one, and went out.
“Marston,” he said as he passed through the back porch, “you load faster than any of the others. If we hurry, we can get it in and then go to church.”
“I cannot do that kind of work on the Sabbath, Mr. Wyman. I regard it as an open violation of His law.”
“If you cannot work for me to-day, you certainly cannot to-morrow.”
I did not stop to question; there was but one course for me. My head bowed over my hands. To lose Mr. Wyman’s friendship was more than I could bear.
“What is that to thee? follow thou me,” floated through my brain and comforted me. Presently a light hand was on my shoulder, and a kind voice said,
“Marston, will you drive us to church? I do not think it will rain at all.”