FATHER BRIGHTHOPES

OR AN OLD CLERGYMAN'S VACATION

BY J. T. TROWBRIDGE

AUTHOR OF "NEIGHBOR JACKWOOD," "CUDJO'S CAVE," "LUCY ARLYN," ETC., ETC.

NEW YORK
HURST & COMPANY
PUBLISHERS

PREFACE.

"Go through the gate, children," said my aunt, "if you wish to see the garden."

I looked out upon half a dozen merry urchins scaling the garden fence. One had already jumped down into a blackberry-bush, which filled him with disgust and prickles. Another, having thrust his curly head between two rails, stuck fast, and began to cry out against the owner of the grounds—my benevolent uncle—as the author of his calamity.

Then it occurred to me that the prefatory leaf of a volume is like yonder wicket. The garden is not complete without it, although many reckless young people rush to the enclosure, creeping under and climbing over at any place, in order to plunge at once amid the fruits and flowers. But the wise always go through the gate; and the little fellow who leaps among the briers or hangs himself in the fence has only himself to blame for the misfortune.

So I resolved to put together this little wicket of a preface; and now, as I throw it open to my friends, let me say a few words about the garden-walks I have prepared.

That they contain some things beautiful, as well as useful, is my sincere trust. Yet I warn thee, ardent youth, and thee, romantic maid, that you will find no hothouse plants, no frail exotics, here. I may promise you some stout sunflowers, however,—pinks, pea-blossoms and peonies,—also a few fresh roses, born in the free country air.

Scorn not these homely scenes, my friends; for you may perchance find the morning-glory of Truth blooming at your side; the vine of Hope overarching your path like a rainbow; yea, and the tree of Life growing in the midst of the garden.

I hope no one will complain of the gay birds singing and fluttering among the boughs; for they can do but slight damage to the sober fruit, and the visitor may owe it to their cheerful strains if he is preserved from drowsiness amid the odors of the poppy-beds.

CONTENTS.

[Preface]
[I. A "United Happy Family."]
[II. Chester]
[III. Evening at the Farm-house]
[IV. The Old Clergyman]
[V. Chester's Confession]
[VI. Morning at the Farm]
[VII. Clouds and Sunshine]
[VIII. Country Scenes]
[IX. Mark, the Jockey]
[X. Company]
[XI. The Lovely and the Unloved]
[XII. Domestic Economy]
[XIII. Talk by the Way]
[XIV. Deacon Dustan's Policy]
[XV. The Philosophy of a Wooden Leg]
[XVI. Going to Meeting]
[XVII. Father Brighthopes in the Pulpit]
[XVIII. Mr. Kerchey]
[XIX. Monday Morning]
[XX. The Hay-field]
[XXI. The Swamp-lot]
[XXII. The Fight and the Victory]
[XXIII. Saturday Afternoon]
[XXIV. The Thunder-storm]
[XXV. A Stream of Peace]
[XXVI. The Rainy Day]
[XXVII. "Old Folks and Young Folks"]
[XXVIII. Mr. Kerchey's Daring Exploit]
[XXIX. Mrs. Royden's Dinner-party]
[XXX. The Old Clergyman's Farewell]
[XXXI. The Departure]
[XXXII. Reunion]
[XXXIII. Conclusion]
[J. T. TROWBRIDGE SERIES]

FATHER BRIGHTHOPES;

OR, AN OLD CLERGYMAN'S VACATION.

I.

A "UNITED HAPPY FAMILY."

There was an unpleasant scowl on Mr. Royden's face, as he got out of his wagon in the yard, and walked, with a quick pace, towards the rear entrance of his house.

"Samuel!" said he, looking into the wood-shed, "what are you about?"

The sharp tone of voice gave Samuel quite a start. He was filling a small flour-sack with walnuts from a bushel-basket placed upon the work-bench, his left hand holding the mouth of the bag, while his right made industrious use of a tin dipper.

"O, nothing,—nothing much!" he stammered, losing his hold of the sack, and making a hasty attempt to recover it. "There! blast it all!"

The sack had fallen down, and spilled its contents all over his feet.

"What are you doing with those nuts?" demanded Mr. Royden, impatiently.

"Why, you see," replied the lad, grinning sheepishly, as he began to gather up the spilled treasure, "I'm making—a piller."

"A what?"

"A piller,—to sleep on. There an't but two feathers in the one on my bed, and they are so lean I can't feel 'em."

"What foolishness!" muttered Mr. Royden, smiling notwithstanding his ill-humor. "But let your pillow alone for the present, and take care of the horse."

"The bag won't stand up, if I leave it."

"Then let it fall down; or set it against the wood-pile. Go and do as I bid you."

Samuel reluctantly left his occupation, and went lazily to unharness the horse, while Mr. Royden entered the old-fashioned kitchen.

The appearance of her uncle was anything but agreeable to poor Hepsy Royden, who stood on a stool at the sink,—her deformed little body being very short,—engaged in preparing some vegetables for cooking. Tears were coursing down her sickly cheeks, and her hands being in the water, it was not convenient to wipe her eyes. But, knowing how Mr. Royden hated tears, she made a hasty snatch at a towel to conceal them. He was just in time to observe the movement.

"Now, what is the matter?" he exclaimed, fretfully. "I never see you, lately, but you are crying."

Hepsy choked back her swelling grief, and pursued her work in silence.

"What ails you, child?"

"I can't tell. I—I wish I was different," she murmured, consulting the towel again; "but I am not very happy."

"Come, come! cheer up!" rejoined Mr. Royden, more kindly, feeling a slight moisture in his own eyes. "Don't be so down-hearted!"

His words sounded to him like mockery. It was easy to say to a poor, sickly, deformed girl "Be cheerful!" but how could cheerfulness be expected of one in her condition?

He passed hastily into the adjoining room; and Hepsy sobbed audibly over the sink. She was even more miserable than he could conceive of. It was not her unattractive face and curved spine, in themselves, that caused her deep grief,—although she had longed, till her heart ached with longing, to be like her beautiful cousins,—but she felt that she was an unloved one, repulsive even to those who regarded her with friendly pity.

Mr. Royden had left the door unlatched behind him, and Hepsy heard him speak to his wife. Her heart swelled with thankfulness when he alluded to herself; and the feeling with which he spoke surprised her, and made her almost happy.

"You should not put too much on the poor child," he said.

"O, la!" replied Mrs. Royden; "she don't hurt herself, I hope."

"She is very feeble and low-spirited," continued the other. "You shouldn't send her out there in the kitchen to work alone. Keep her more with you, and try to make her cheerful. Her lot would be a hard one enough, if she had all the luxuries of life at her command. Do be kind to her!"

Had Mr. Royden known what a comfort those few words, so easily spoken, proved to Hepsy's sensitive heart, he would have blessed the good angel that whispered them in his ear. She wept still; but now her tears were a relief, and she dried them soon. She felt happier than she had done in many days before; and when she heard his voice calling her in the other room, she ran cheerfully to learn what he wished of her.

"Sarah has got a letter from Chester, and he sends his love to you," said he. "Read what he writes, Sarah."

Sarah stood by a window, eagerly running her clear blue eye over her brother's letter. Hepsy, trembling with agitation, looked up at her rosy face, and shrank into the corner by the chimney to avoid observation. At first she had turned very pale, but now her cheeks burned with blushes.

"Why, he says he is coming home in a week!" cried Sarah.

Mrs. Royden uttered an exclamation of surprise, looking up from her sewing; Hepsy shrank still further in the corner, and Mr. Royden asked, impatiently,

"What boyish freak is that?"

"He does not explain. There is some mystery about it," replied Sarah. "I warrant he has been getting into trouble."

"If he has, he shall stay at home and work on the farm!" exclaimed her father, in a tone of displeasure. "Read the letter aloud, now, so that we can all hear it."

Sarah commenced at the beginning, and went through with the four hastily-written pages. The listeners were very attentive; Hepsy especially. She fixed her expressive eyes on her cousin with a look of intense interest. When allusion was made to her, the poor girl's countenance lighted up with pleasure, and her tears gathered again, but did not fall.

"O, a letter!—who from?" cried a ringing voice.

The interruption was a relief to Hepsy. The children had returned from the fields; they entered the sitting-room like a little band of barbarians, with Lizzie—a girl some twelve years old—at their head, laughing, talking, screaming, in an almost frightful manner.

"Hush! hush!" exclaimed Mr. Royden, putting down his foot, impatiently.

"Children!" said Mrs. Royden, with contracted brows, "you don't know how your noise shoots through my poor old head! You drive me distracted!"

"Lizzie runned away from me!" bawled a little bareheaded fellow, with a face red as an Indian's, and not very clean. "The old thing! I'll strike her."

And the young hero, wiping his face with his sleeve, made a savage dash at his sister, with intent to scratch and bite. But Lizzie repelled the attack, holding him at a safe distance by the hair. Upon this, he shifted his mode of attack, and resorted to kicking, with even worse success; for, losing his balance, he fell, and came down upon the back of his head, with a jar which showed him many stars in the firmament of his cranium.

"I never saw such actions!" muttered Mrs. Royden, putting aside her sewing with an ominous gesture, and hastening to the scene of the disaster.

Lizzie dodged, but not in time to avoid several smart cuffs which her mother bestowed on her ears.

"I couldn't help it,—he threw himself down!" exclaimed the girl, angrily, and with flashing eyes.

"What did you run away from him for?"

"I didn't! He stopped to throw stones at the birds, and wanted us to wait. Didn't he, Georgie?"

"Yes, he did," said Georgie. "And he said he'd tell that we ran away from him, if we didn't wait."

"I didn't!" exclaimed the boy on the floor kicking at a furious rate.

"Stop that!" said Mr. Royden. "Willie, do you hear?"

Willie kicked harder than ever, and began to tear his collar with his dirty hands. Mrs. Royden could not stand and see that.

"Why don't you govern him, when you set out to?" she asked, rather sharply, of her husband.

"There! there! Willie will get up and be a good boy," he rejoined, coaxingly.

But Willie did not; and his mother, picking him up very suddenly, shook him till his teeth chattered and it seemed his head must fly off; then set him down in a little chair, so roughly that the dishes rattled in the pantry as if shaken by an earthquake.

"Mother! mother!" said Mr. Royden, hastily, "you'll injure that child's brain!"

"I believe in making children mind, when I set about it," replied his wife, winding up her treatment with a pair of well-balanced cuffs on Willie's ears.

"There!—how does that set? Will you be so naughty again?"

The urchin was quite breathless and confused; but as soon as he had gathered strength, and collected his senses, he set up a yell of rage, which might have been heard half a mile; upon which Mrs. Royden snatched him up, and landed him in a clothes-press, before he knew what new disaster was going to happen. His cries grew fainter and fainter to the ears of the family in the sitting-room, until, the dungeon door being closed, they were muffled and smothered altogether.

His mother, having disposed of him, reappeared in one of her worst humors.

"Go about your work, Hepsy!" she cried. "Lizzie, go and wash George's face. Stop your sniveling! What are you running off for, Sarah?"

"To get out of the noise," said Sarah.

"I've as good a mind to box your ears as ever I had to eat!" exclaimed her mother. "Sit down and finish that seam, you saucy thing!"

Sarah sat down, with a very wry face, while Mr. Royden, looking melancholy and displeased, left the house.

By dinner-time the children had worn off their ill temper, and Mrs. Royden had recovered her equanimity.

"Come, now, let us see if we can't have peace in the family," said Mr. Royden, as he sat down at the table, addressing the children, but intending the words for his wife's ear as well.

"Sammy keeps making faces at me!" complained Willie, whose eyes were still red with crying.

"O, I didn't!" exclaimed Samuel, with great candor.

"I seen him!" said Georgie.

"I was only doing so,"—and Sam, throwing his head to one side, winked with his left eye and looked up at the ceiling with the other.

"What did you do that for?" asked Mr. Royden, beginning to feel irritated again.

"I was thinking how the old goose does when she thinks it's going to rain," replied Sam, performing the operation again, to the amusement of the children.

Mr. Royden smiled.

"Haven't you anything else to do but to watch the old goose?" he asked, pleasantly. "How about that pillow?"

"O, that's fixed! I'm going to sleep on it to-night, to try it."

"Hepsy,"—Mr. Royden seemed just to have discovered that she was not at the table,—"there's room for you. Why don't you sit down?"

"O, she'd just as lief wait and tend the baby," said Mrs. Royden.

"But the baby is still."

"She wants to read our Chester's letter," spoke up James, a lad of fifteen, so loud that Hepsy could hear him in the next room.

"Come, Hepsy! come and eat your dinner," cried Mr. Royden.

She said she was not hungry; but he insisted; and she sat down at the table, looking very pale, and with really no appetite.

Mr. Royden then proceeded to disclose the news which had probably occasioned the unpleasant scowl on his features, at his return from the post-office, two hours before. He said he had received a letter from his cousin Rensford, the clergyman, who proposed to visit them in the course of one or two weeks.

"His health is feeble, and he wants a vacation in the country. He expects me to write, if it will be perfectly convenient for us to have him here a month or so."

"I don't know how we can, any way in the world," said Mrs. Royden.

"O, I hope he won't come!" cried James. "If he does, we can't have any fun,—with his long face."

"Ministers are so hateful!" added Lizzie.

"He shan't come!" cried Georgie, flourishing his knife.

"Hush, children!" said Mrs. Royden, petulantly. "Put down that knife, Georgie!"

"We want a good, respectable private chaplain, to keep the young ones still," quietly remarked Sarah.

"You used to be just like them," said her mother. "If you'd do half as much for them as I have done for you, there wouldn't be much trouble with them."

"How does that fit?" slyly asked James, pinching his sister's elbow.

"Samuel Cone!" exclaimed Mrs. Royden, sternly; "take your plate and go away from the table!"

"Why, what has he done now?" inquired her husband.

"He put a piece of potato in Willie's neck. Samuel, do you hear?"

"Yes 'm," said Sam, giggling and preparing to obey.

Willie had laughed at first at the tickling sensation, but now he began to cry.

"It's gone clear down!" he whined, pressing his clothes tight to his breast. "You old ugly—"

He struck at Sam, just as the latter was removing from the table. The consequence was, Sam's plate was knocked out of his hand and broken in pieces on the floor. The lad saw Mrs. Royden starting from her chair, and ran as if for his life.

"Now, don't, mother! Let me manage," said Mr. Royden.

She sat down again, as if with a great effort.

"You are welcome to manage, if you choose to. Willie, stop kicking the table! Take that potato out of his clothes, Sarah. Hepsy, why don't you clean up the floor, without being told?"

"See how much mischief you do, with your fooling," said Mr. Royden, with a severe look at Sam.

The boy cast down his eyes, kicking the door-post with his big toe.

"Come back, now, and eat your dinner. See if you can behave yourself."

"He don't deserve to have a mouthful," exclaimed Mrs. Royden. "What you ever took him to bring up for, I can't conceive; I should think we had children enough of our own, to make us trouble!"

"He's old enough to know better. Come and finish your dinner."

"I don't want no dinner!" muttered Sam.

But he did not require much urging. Half ashamed, and grinning from ear to ear, he took his place again at the table, Hepsy having brought a fresh plate. Meanwhile Sarah had pacified Willie, and recovered the fragments of potato that had wandered down into his trousers.

Peace being restored, the subject of the clergyman's visit was resumed by Mr. Royden.

"I don't know how we can refuse him; it will be disagreeable, on all sides, for him to be here."

"He will not suit us; and I am sure we shall not suit him," replied Mrs. Royden. "He will want to study and be quiet; and, unless he stays in his room all the time, and shuts out the children, I don't know what he will do. More than all that, I couldn't think of having him around the house, any way in the world."

"I wish I knew what to do about it," muttered Mr. Royden, scowling.

"I want you to do just as you think best, now that you have my opinion on the subject."

This was a way Mrs. Royden had of shirking responsibilities. Her husband smiled bitterly.

"If I decide for him to come," said he, "and his visit proves disagreeable, I shall be the only one to blame. But I suppose there is but one course to pursue. We cannot refuse the hospitality of our house; but I sincerely wish he had chosen any other place to spend his vacation."

"It is so strange he should think of coming among plain farmers, in the country!" observed Mrs. Royden.

"O, don't have him here!" cried the younger children, in chorus.

Although there was a large majority of voices against him, Mr. Royden concluded that Sarah might reply to the clergyman's letter, after dinner, telling him pretty plainly how he would be situated if he came; and say that, notwithstanding their circumstances, they would be glad to see him.

"After this," said he, "I should hardly think he would come. But, if he does, we must try and make the best of it."

II.

CHESTER.

It was on a warm and beautiful afternoon, several days subsequent to the scenes just described, when little Willie, who was catching flies on the sitting-room window, suddenly cried out, at the top of his voice,

"There comes Ches', full garlick! I guess the witches are after him!"

There was a general rush to the window. Willie had spoken truly. There, indeed, was Chester, riding down the road, full gallop, yet hardly with the air of one pursued by hags. He sat the horse bravely, and waved his graceful hand to the faces at the window.

Scrambling and screaming with joy, the children ran to the door to meet their brother. Only Hepsy remained in the sitting-room. Her poor heart beat fearfully, her breath came very short, and she was pale, faint and trembling. She had neither strength nor courage to go forward and welcome her cousin. Samuel came from the garden, James from the barn, and the three younger children from the house, to meet Chester at the gate. The latter swung himself from the saddle, and catching up Willie, who had climbed the fence, tossed him playfully upon the horse's back.

"How are you, chuck?" he cried, kissing Lizzie. "Folks all well? Why, Jim, how you have grown!"

"O! O! O!" screamed Willie, afraid of falling, as Sam led the horse into the yard; "take me down!"

"Don't you want to ride?" asked Chester.

"No! I'll fall! O!"

Chester laughed, and took him off, kissing his tanned cheek, before he set him upon the turf.

"I want to ride!" cried Lizzie.

"Do you?" laughed her brother. He threw her up so suddenly that she found herself in a position rather more becoming to boys than girls. The children shouted while she hastily shifted sidewise on the saddle, and Chester put her foot in the stirrup-strap.

"I want to ride, too!" cried Georgie, clinging to his brother's legs.

"Well, we'll see if the pony will carry double. Hold him tight by the bridle, Sam."

Sam liked no better fun. He held the horse while Chester put up George behind Lizzie. The animal curled back his ears, but did not seem to mind it much.

George was so delighted with his position, that Willie, who had abdicated his seat voluntarily, now began to cry with envy.

"Do you want to ride now?" said Chester. "Hold fast to Georgie, then."

He put him up, and the child laughed gleefully before his tears were dry.

James looked as if he would like to ride, too, but was too manly to speak of it.

"Hold tight, Willie!" said he.

"I will!" cried the urchin, hugging Georgie with all his might.

"O! you hurt!" roared Georgie. "There's a pop-gun in my jacket pocket, and you squeeze it right into my side."

Chester reached up, and removed the pop-gun, much to Georgie's relief.

"Now lead on to the barn, Sam," said he,—"slowly. Don't let the young ones get hurt, when you take them off."

"Let me drive," cried Lizzie.

Sam looked up for Chester's approval, and abandoned the reins to the young lady. The horse moved on towards the barn, good-naturedly, as if he was used to such nonsense.

Chester could not help laughing to see Willie hug Georgie with all his might; his brown cheeks pressed close against his brother's jacket, and his little bare feet sticking out almost straight on each side, his legs being very short, and the animal's back very broad.

While the young man stood there laughing, some one clasped him from behind, and kissed his cheek.

"Sarah! my dearest sister!" cried Chester, folding her in his arms; "I am glad to see you! How beautiful you grow!"

"You can well afford to say that," replied Sarah, gazing with undisguised admiration at his handsome face, and curling black whiskers. "O! I should hardly have known you!"

Chester laughed, well pleased with the praise implied, and, clasping her waist, was dancing with her towards the house, when the screams of little Willie attracted their attention.

Looking round, they saw the boy Sam, who had a rare genius for mischief, tickling the bottom of Willie's foot with a twig. The latter could not help himself; kicking was impracticable, considering his position, and to disengage a hand from George's waist would have endangered his neck by a fall. The little fellow was completely at the mercy of Sam, who walked by the horse, plying the twig, and laughing with infinite good-nature.

"Sam! you rascal!" cried Chester; "let that boy alone."

"I'm only keeping the flies off his foot," replied Sam, candidly.

"Well, if you don't take care, I'll keep the flies off your back with a larger stick than that! Why do you want to spoil the little shaver's ride in that way?"

By this time, Willie, feeling deeply injured, began to bellow, and Lizzie was obliged to drive twice around the big wood-pile, in the center of the yard, to pacify him.

Mrs. Royden met Chester in the doorway, and kissed him affectionately. She proposed half a dozen leading questions with regard to his conduct, his health and his designs, almost in a breath; all of which he answered equivocally, or postponed altogether.

"Where is Hepsy?" he asked, throwing himself on a chair, and wiping the sweat from his fine forehead with a perfumed handkerchief.

"She'll come soon enough," replied his mother, in a disagreeable tone. "Have you got to using perfumes, Chester?"

The young man flirted his handkerchief, smiling disdainfully, and said he "supposed he had."

"For my part, I think they are very nice," added the admiring Sarah.

"Do you, Sis? Well, you shall have as much of them as you want, when my trunks come."

"Where are your trunks?" asked Mrs. Royden.

"At the tavern. I was in a hurry to come home; so I hired a saddle and galloped over the road. Let one of the boys harness up, and go for the luggage."

"Why, your father has gone to the village himself. Didn't you meet him?"

"No; he must have gone by the west road. I wonder if he will stop at the tavern? If he does, the landlord will tell him my traps are there."

"I presume he will go to the tavern, child. We are expecting his cousin Rensford, the clergyman, to-day, and your father went as much to bring him over as anything."

"Pshaw! the old minister?" cried Chester. "How long is he going to stay?"

"I hope not a great while," said Sarah. "Anything but a minister—out of the pulpit."

"He'll just spoil my visit," rejoined her brother. "He has been here, hasn't he? I think I remember seeing him, when I was about so high," measuring off the door-post.

"He spent the night here, several years ago; but we don't know much about him, only by hearsay. He's a very good man, we are told," said Mrs. Royden, with a sigh; "but how we are going to have him in the family, I don't know."

Chester changed the topic of conversation by once inquiring for Hepsy. The girl did not make her appearance; and he expressed a desire to "see a basin of water and a hair-brush."

"You shall have the parlor bedroom," said Sarah.

"But if Mr. Rensford comes—" suggested her mother.

"O, he can go up-stairs."

"I won't hear to that!" cried Chester. "Give the old man the luxuries. I want to see the inside of my old room again."

"But Hepsy and the children have that room now."

"Never mind; I want to look into it. So bring up a basin of water, Sis."

The young man went up-stairs. He heard a flutter as he was about entering his old room. He went in; and Hepsy, pale, palpitating, speechless, caught in the act of arranging her brown hair,—which, like her eyes, was really beautiful,—shrank from his sight behind the door.

"Hillo! so I've found you!" he exclaimed, heartily. "I've been hunting the house through for you. Are you afraid of your cousin?"

The blood rushed into the poor girl's face, as she gave him her quivering hand. He did not kiss her, as he had kissed his sisters; but he pressed her hand kindly, and spoke to her in a very brotherly tone, inquiring how she was, and expressing delight at seeing her again.

As soon as she had recovered her self-possession, her eyes began to beam with pleasure, and her tongue found words. When Sarah came up, the two were sitting side by side upon a trunk; and Chester was rattling away at a great rate, telling his poor cousin of his adventures.

He went into another room to perform his ablutions, and Hepsy was left alone, her veins thrilling, her head dizzy, and all her nerves unstrung. The meeting, the surprise, the agitation and the joy, had been too much for her sensitive nature; and she sought relief in a flood of tears.

Chester was very restless. Scarcely was he seated again in the sitting-room, with his cravat freshly-tied, and his hair and whiskers newly-curled, when he thought of a call he wished to make before night. His mother scolded him dreadfully for running off so soon; but he did not mind it, and ordered Sam to bring his horse to the door.

The children were all around him, begging him not to go; but Willie encouraged the idea, provided he could go too, and ride behind.

"O, you can't ride this time," said Chester.

"Yes, I can. Sam tickled my foot; I couldn't ride good before," whined the child.

But his brother did not acknowledge his claims to indemnification, and mounted the horse. Willie began to cry, and, seizing a hoe, charged upon Samuel furiously, as the author of all his woes.

Chester laughed; but his mother cried out from the doorway, "Do let him ride! Why can't you?" and he called Sam to put the little hero up. He took him over the pommel of the saddle, and galloped away in fine style, leaving George crying with envy.

Willie was delighted, feeling no fear in Chester's arms; and when the latter asked him, in a coaxing tone, if he would go back, the little fellow said he would; and his brother swung him down by the arm from the saddle-bow. He went trudging through the sand, to meet the other children, and brag of his ride while the young man galloped gayly over the hill.

III.

EVENING AT THE FARM-HOUSE.

It was dusk when Chester returned. Riding up to the barn-door, he found Sam trying to make the cat draw a basket of eggs by a twine harness. Sam jumped up quickly, having cast off the traces, and began to whistle very innocently. The cat in harness darted around the corner, and disappeared in the shadows; while the mischief-maker swung the eggs on his arm, and, appearing suddenly to have observed Chester, stopped whistling, out of respect.

"What are you doing to that cat?" cried the young man.

"What cat? O!" said Sam, candidly, "she's got tangled in a string somehow, and I was trying to get her out."

"What a talent you have for lying!" laughed Chester. "Now, do you think you can take this horse over to the village without getting into some kind of a scrape?"

"O, yes!"

"Will you ride slow?"

"I won't go out of a walk," exclaimed Sam, positively.

"O, you may trot him, or go on a slow gallop, if you like; but don't ride fast, for he is jaded. Leave him at the tavern, and come home as fast as you like."

Sam was delighted with the idea; and, having put the eggs in a safe place, mounted the horse from the block, and galloped him slowly down the road.

In a little while he began to look back, and touch the animal gently with the whip, when he thought he was out of sight. Racing appeared to Sam to be capital fun. Instead of taking the nearest way to the village, he turned at the first cross-road, along which he could pursue his harmless amusement in a quiet and unostentatious manner.

In a few minutes he had lashed the horse into what is familiarly termed a "keen jump." The fences, the stones, the grove, with its deepening shadows, seemed to be on a "keen jump" in the opposite direction. The boy screamed with delight, and still plied the whip. Suddenly his straw hat was taken off by the wind, and went fluttering over the animal's crupper.

This was an unforeseen catastrophe; and, fearing lest he should not be able to find the lost article on his return, Sam attempted to slacken speed. But the animal manifested a perfect indifference to all his efforts. He sawed on the bit, and cried whoa, in vain. Frank was not a horse to be whipped for nothing, and he now meant to have his share of the fun. He seemed almost to fly. The rider became alarmed, and, to increase his fright, his left foot slipped out of the stirrup. In an instant he found himself bounding in a fearful manner over the pommel, then on the animal's neck. He cleared his right foot, abandoned the reins, and clung to saddle and mane with all his might. But he somehow lost his balance; he then experienced a disagreeable sensation of falling; and, after a confused series of disasters, of which he had but a numb and sickening consciousness, he made a discovery of himself, creeping out of a brier-bush, on the road-side.

The first object that attracted his attention was a riderless horse darting up the next hill, a quarter of a mile off; and here we must leave the bold adventurer, limping slowly, and with much trouble, over the road, in the dim hope of catching, at some future time, a fleet animal, going at the rate of fifteen miles an hour.

After sending Sam with the horse, Chester walked towards the house; but the family there assembled appearing to be in a sad state of confusion generally, he stopped before reaching the door. Willie was shrieking in the shed, and striking his cousin Hepsy, because she insisted on washing his feet before putting him to bed. Georgie was in the kitchen, blubbering sullenly; he had seen Sam trot Frank out of the yard, and was angry at losing the ride he had anticipated on Chester's return. Lizzie was trying to get a book away from Sarah, with much ado, and Mrs. Royden was scolding promiscuously.

"What a home to cheer a fellow, after six months' absence!" murmured the young man, feeling sick at heart; "and it would seem so easy to make it cheerful and pleasant!"

He turned away, and, walking into the orchard, met his brother James.

"Hasn't father returned?" he asked.

"Oh, yes; two hours ago."

"Did he bring my trunks?"

"Yes," said James; "and a load he had of it. The old minister is come, with baggage enough of his own to last, I should think, a year or two."

Chester expressed some disagreeable sentiments touching the old clergyman's visit, and walked with James into the lane, behind the barn, to find his father.

Mr. Royden was rejoiced to meet his long-absent son.

"You milk the old red cow yet, I see," said Chester.

"Yes," replied his father, continuing the humble occupation; "I suppose I shall have to as long as we keep her."

"How many times that foot of hers has knocked over a frothing pail for me!" rejoined Chester.

"I don't know why it is, but nobody except me can do anything with her," said Mr. Royden. "The hired men are as afraid of her foot as of a streak of lightning. Sometimes, when I am away, the boys try to milk her; but she thinks she has a perfect right to knock them around as she pleases. I believe it is because they are not gentle; they fool with her, and milk so slow that she gets out of patience; then, when she kicks, they whip her. That's no way, James. You see, I never have any trouble with her. I'd rather milk her than any cow in the yard; I never knew her to kick but once or twi—"

"This is the third time!" said Chester, laughing.

While his father was speaking the cow's foot had made one of its sudden and rapid evolutions. The pail was overturned; the milk was running along the ground, and the animal was running down the lane.

Mr. Royden got up from the stool, and looked at mischief she had done, with a blank expression.

"You didn't get spattered, I hope?" said he.

"No, I think not;" and Chester passed his hand over his clothes.

"Shall I head her off?" asked James.

"No. I had just finished."

"That's just the time she always kicks, father."

"I know it; and I ought to have been on the lookout. She don't like to have any talking going on during the business of milking. Come, let us go to the house."

The children had been put to bed; the candles were lighted, and the sitting-room looked quite cheerful.

"What made you stay so long, Chester?" asked Mrs. Royden. "You haven't had any supper, have you?"

"Yes; the Dustans invited me to tea."

"And did you walk home?"

"Walk! No, indeed, I rode."

"But you are not going to keep that horse over night, on expense, I hope," said Mrs. Royden.

Chester replied that he had sent Sam with him to the village.

"Now, that boy will do some mischief with him, you may depend! Why couldn't you walk over from the tavern in the first place, instead of hiring a horse? You shouldn't be so careless of expense, Chester."

The young man began to whistle. The entrance of Sarah seemed a relief to him; and he immediately proposed a game of whist. His mother opposed him strenuously, saying that she wanted him to talk, and tell all about his fortunes and prospects, that evening; but it was his object to avoid all conversation touching his own conduct, in presence of the family.

"Come, Jim," said he, "where are the cards? Will Hepsy play?"

"Hepsy is busy," replied Mrs. Royden, curtly. "If you must play, Lizzy will make up the set."

"But the minister?" suggested Lizzie.

"Yes," said her mother. "It will not do to play before him."

"He has gone to bed, I am pretty sure," cried Sarah. "He was very tired, and it is all still in his room."

"Let us have a little sport, then, when we can," said Chester.

The table was set out; the players took their places, and the cards were shuffled and dealt.

"They don't know one card from another over at Deacon Smith's," observed Sarah, sorting her hand. "I never knew such stupid people."

"What is that,—a knave or a king?" inquired Lizzie, holding up one of her cards.

"Don't you know better than to show your hand?" cried James, who was her partner. "It's a knave, of course. The king has no legs."

"You needn't be so cross about it!" murmured Lizzie.

"If you don't know how to play," retorted her brother, "you'd better let Hepsy take your place."

"Children!" cried Mrs. Royden, "if you can't get along without quarreling, I will burn every card I find in the house. Now, do you mark my word!"

To keep peace, Chester proposed to take Lizzie for his partner; a new hand was dealt, and the play went on.

"I wish," said Mrs. Royden, as her husband entered the room, "I wish you would make the children give up their whist for this evening."

But Mr. Royden liked to have his family enjoy themselves; and, as long as cards kept them good-natured, he was glad to see them play. He sat down by the side-table, opened a fresh newspaper he had brought from the village, adjusted his glasses on his nose, and began to read.

IV.

THE OLD CLERGYMAN.

In a little while, Hepsy came in from the kitchen, having finished her work, and, timidly drawing a chair near the whist-table, sat down to watch the game.

"I don't want Hepsy looking over my shoulder!" exclaimed Lizzie, with an expression of disgust.

"If you would let her tell you a little about the game, you would get along full as well," observed James, sarcastically.

"I don't want her to tell me!"

"Hepsy," spoke up Mrs. Royden, "why don't you take your sewing? You won't do any good there."

"Do let her look on, if it interests her," said Mr. Royden, impatiently putting down his paper, and lifting his glasses. "Don't keep her at work all the time."

But Hepsy, the moment Lizzie spoke, had shrank away from the table, with an expression of intense pain on her unattractive face.

"Come here, Hepsy," said Chester, drawing a chair for her to his side; "you may look over my shoulder. Come!"

The girl hesitated, while the big tears gathered in her eyes; but he extended his hand, and, taking hers, made her sit down. After he had played his card, he laid his arm familiarly across the back of her chair. Her face burned, and seemed to dry up the tears which had glistened, but did not fall.

Mr. Royden took up his paper again with an air of satisfaction; his wife looked sternly reconciled, and plied her sewing vigorously. The play went on pleasantly; Lizzie feeling so thoroughly ashamed of her unkindness to Hepsy—which she would not have thought of but for Chester's rebuke—that she did not speak another disagreeable word during the evening.

"Put the cards under the table,—quick!" suddenly exclaimed James.

"What's the matter?" asked Sarah.

"The minister is coming!" he added, in a fearful whisper.

Footsteps were indeed heard approaching from the parlor. The young people were in a great flurry, and Sarah and Lizzie hastened to follow James' advice and example. But Chester would not give up his cards.

"Let him come," said he. "If he never saw a pack of cards, it is time he should see one. It is your play, Sarah."

Thus admonished, the children brought out their cards again, and recommenced playing, in a very confused manner. Chester's example was hardly sufficient to give them courage in the eyes of the minister.

They heard the door open, and there was not a face at the table, except Chester's, but burned with consciousness of guilt.

"Ah, how do you feel, after your journey?" asked Mr. Royden. "Hepsy, place a chair for Mr. Rensford."

"No, no; do not trouble yourself, my child," said the old gentleman, smiling kindly upon the girl. "Let me help myself."

He sat down in the seat she had vacated, behind Lizzie's chair.

"I feel much rested," he added, cheerily. "That nice cup of tea, Sister Royden, has made a new man of me."