A thoughtful man once remarked that a special proof of divine wisdom was that the dear old story of the Prodigal Son did not reproduce any of the conversation of the neighbors with or regarding the naughty boy, for had this also been given as it really occurred, no subsequent penitent would ever have dared to follow the amateur swineherd’s example.

Philip Hayn was not a prodigal; he had spent none of his inheritance except as specially ordered by his father, and his only ground of self-reproach was regarding an affair about which the neighbors had no means of obtaining information; yet the special efforts made by the family to manifest their joy at regaining him were unequal to the task of overcoming the disquieting effects of the neighbors’ tongues. The dreadful man who had caught Phil on the train had spread the news of the boy’s return, so next morning the road from the village to Hayn Farm presented an appearance as animated as if an auction had been announced in that vicinity, or as if some one had been found dead in the woods. Men old and young, wives and maidens, and even little children, devised excuses for visiting the farm. People who came from the other direction were already supplied with the standard excuse,—they wanted to borrow something; those who had really borrowed so often as to doubt their welcome made heroic efforts to return what they had already borrowed.

To escape the succession of visitors at the house, Phil went to the barn-yard to see a new family of pigs of which his little brothers had informed him, but just above the fence-line he saw two pairs of eyes—with their attendant heads, of course—that had been lying in wait for an hour or two, after the manner of that class of countrymen, evidently among the last offshoots from the brutes, who apparently have an inherited animal apprehension of harm should they enter the den of any species higher than their own.

“Guess you didn’t see any pigs like them down to York?” shouted the owner of one pair of eyes, while the other pair opened as if they would engulf the returned traveller. Phil nodded his head negatively and precipitately retreated to the barn, where he found quite a respectable old farmer studying the beach-wagon.

“Reuben reckoned mebbe he could gimme a bargain if I’d take this off his hands,” he said, by way of explanation, “so I thought I’d take a look at it.” The old man shook the wheels, tapped the bed, examined the iron-work closely, remarking, as he did so,—

“Reckon, by his wantin’ to dispose of it, that them city folks ain’t a-comin’ here next summer to be druv down to the beach,—eh?”

“I don’t know,” said the unhappy youth. He was grateful to the old fellow for not looking him in the eye, like a witness-teaser, as he asked the question, yet he longed to kick him out of the barn and lock the doors, so that there would be one less place for the enemy to lie in wait. He returned to the house, and entered the kitchen just in time to hear a feminine neighbor say,—

“I s’pose he’ll wear his new clothes—them that Sol Mantring fetched word about—to church on Sunday?”

Phil abruptly got an axe and went to the wood-lot; his first impulse was to take his gun, but half in jest and half in earnest he told himself that he would not dare to have arms in his hands if the torment was to continue. Yet even while in the depths of the ancestral forest he was not safe, for, on the hollow pretence of tracking a dog who had been stealing sheep, a neighbor followed Phil to the woods, found him by the tell-tale blows of the axe, and had him at his mercy for a full hour: the visitor had mentally set apart a half-day for the work.

“There’s one way o’ gettin’ rid of this raft o’ people,” said Mrs. Hayn, who rapidly became as indignant as her son at the persistency with which people brought Lucia’s name into conversation. “One would s’pose that the world had got back to the way it was in old Father Adam’s day, as far as gals was concerned, an’ there was only one female that anybody could take a notion to. They come a-pesterin’ the life out o’ me, just as if I knowed any more about it than they do,—which I don’t.” Then the anxious mother looked slyly, and somewhat reproachfully, at her son, who flushed and said,—

“Tell us the way of getting out of it, mother, and at least one of your children will arise and call you blessed.”

“Why, it’s to have the minister an’ his wife to tea. It’s manners, an’ pretty much everybody knows it, not to disturb anybody the day they’re goin’ to have the minister.”

“Let’s have him,” said Phil, eagerly; “I’ll do anything to help you get ready,—beat eggs, stone raisins,—anything but go to the store for nutmegs and be caught by the proprietor and all his customers. Say, mother, why can’t you invite the other ministers too, on successive days?”

“You will wear your new clothes, though, when the minister comes, won’t you?” asked the old lady, with some timidity. “You know I hain’t seen ’em on you yet, an’ I’m a-dyin’ to, though I hain’t liked to put you to the trouble of dressin’ up on purpose, knowin’ how men hate to try things on.”

Phil promised: he could not resist his mother’s appealing eyes. As the old lady prophesied, the family were not annoyed the day of the supper to the minister. Phil’s conscience was not easy in anticipation of the expected guest, for he knew he would be questioned about the appearance of noted New York divines whom he would be supposed to have heard, whereas the only service he had attended was at the Tramlays’ church, the pastor of which had no notoriety at all. Perhaps it was to punish his youthful parishioner for neglect of religious privileges that the good man questioned Phil quite closely about the Tramlay family and delivered a thoughtful analysis of the character of the oldest daughter, with comments upon the probable effects of marriage on various qualities of her nature. After each statement he appealed to Phil for corroboration, and on his way home confided to his wife that he believed he had fully prepared the dear young brother for what he might expect should he take the important step upon which in all probability he was resolved.

Phil endured with becoming fortitude the minister’s remarks about Lucia, and the whispered but not unheard comments of the minister’s wife on the “store clothes,” which had been worn in deference to Mrs. Hayn’s request. He ate the three kinds of solid cake without which no supper to a Haynton minister was supposed to be complete. He made unusual effort, his father being away, to cause the visit one to be pleasantly remembered by the good pastor. He was rewarded by discovering that his trip to the city which he had heard called the “Modern Sodom” and the “American Babylon” had not destroyed nor even weakened his interest in religious subjects, and he was prepared to retire with a more peaceable mind than he had known in several days. But after the table had been cleared and the uneaten pieces of cake carefully put in an earthen jar against the next Sunday’s tea, and Phil was about to go to his room, his mother said,—

“Dearie, I s’pose you’ll wear your new black things to meetin’ Sunday mornin’, won’t you?”

“Oh, mother,” said Phil, with a frown quickly succeeded by a laugh, “nobody ever wears such a coat to church. Everybody would laugh at me.”

“Dear me!” said the old lady, evidently disappointed quite deeply. “I want to know! Then when be you goin’ to wear it?”

“Never, I suppose,” said Phil, his smile vanishing. “I was an extravagant fool to buy that coat. I’ll never forgive myself for it.”

“Never?” the old lady had echoed. “Then your poor old mother, who loves you better than anybody in the world, is never to see you in it?”

“She shan’t wait another hour!” said Phil, hurrying out of the room, and telling himself that his mother cared more for him than all his New York friends combined. He dressed himself anew, with as much care, though not as much trepidation, as when preparing for the Dinon party; he even slipped out of doors and by lighting two or three matches selected a bud from a rose-bush which was carefully covered from the frost every night. He dressed his hair carefully, caressed his moustache into the form a barber had told him was most becoming to his style of face, and squeezed his feet into the low, tight, patent-leather shoes which a shoemaker had assured him were the only proper thing for evening dress. Then he came down-stairs, whistling “Hail to the chief.”

Mrs. Hayn hastily adjusted the spectacles she had been polishing, and as Phil entered the room she threw up both hands in amazement and delight. It was worth the price of a coat, thought Phil to himself, to enable that dear, honest old face to express so much enjoyment. As his mother gazed at him, Phil went through the various poses which had been demanded of him when he was a child—even later—and clothes were being fitted to him by the trustworthy Sarah Tweege; he turned around, presented one side view and the other, walked across the room and back, and saluted his mother with his most profound bow. His mother’s delight knew no bounds. Finally the good old lady took both his hands, held him at arms’ length, looked as if she never could see enough of him; then she gave him a motherly hug, and exclaimed,—

“I should think she’d have fell dead in love with you the minute she clapped her eyes on you, with all those things on.”

Phil retired hastily, and when he removed his dress-coat he savagely shook his fist at it.