Mr. Holland came out of the church and passed us, halting a moment to speak. “I am on my way to pray by poor Gisby,” he said. “They have sent for me.”
“Gisby must need it,” whispered Tod to me. “He has been a worse sinner than Fred Westerbrook: full of hatred, malice, and all uncharitableness.”
And so he had been—in regard to Fred.
“Help! Thieves!—Robbers! Help!”
The shouts came from our yard, as we were sitting down to breakfast on Monday morning, and we rushed out. There stood Mack, in the greatest state of excitement possible; his eyes lifted, his arms at work, and his breath gone. The servants ran out before we did.
“Why! what on earth’s the matter, Ben Mack?” demanded the Squire. “Have you gone mad?”
“We’ve had thieves in the barn, sir! Thieves! All my clothes is stole.”
“What clothes?”
“Them what I left in’t o’ Saturday night, Squire. My smock-frock and my boots, and my spotted cotton neck-handkecher. They be gone, they be.”