The fine weather continued during the week. Literally Mr. Royden and his men "made hay while the sun shone." Saturday came, and they were astonished at what was done.

"I have tried my new system pretty thoroughly," said the farmer to his aged guest, that morning. "I have taken things in an easy way, decidedly, this week. Work has gone ahead amazingly. The river was deep, but it ran smoothly. The hay-field has been like a play-ground to all of us."

But the crisis was to come. Saturday was the great "drawing" day. Mr. Royden was a cautious man; doubting whether the fine weather would continue until Monday, he was anxious to see every cock of hay in the stack, or under shelter, before night. He had laid his plans with great foresight, and would have accomplished them beautifully, had not a sudden change of weather in the afternoon occurred, to throw his affairs into confusion.

When Father Brighthopes mounted the hay-rick, to ride to the field with the laborers, after their brief nooning, he remarked that he "smelt a storm brewing."

"Let it come," said the farmer. "We will try to be prepared for it."

The air was close and sultry. A few dark western clouds showed their sullen foreheads over the horizon's rim, like grim giants meditating battle. There appeared angry commotions among them now and then, and some low growls of thunder came to the ear.

But overhead the yellow sky was clear. In the east, in the north, in the south, not even a white fleece was to be seen.

"It may rain by evening," said the farmer, gently touching the flanks of the horses with the point of a pitchfork. "We have got our stint, boys; it will be no harm if we have it done when the sun is an hour high."

The horses threw themselves into a lazy trot. The wagon rattled down the lane, and went jolting over the rough ground at the entrance of the meadow. The men jumped out and took their rakes, followed by Chester; while Mr. Royden and James resumed their work of drawing.

The farmer pitched up the cocks, James shaped the load, and the clergyman "raked after," cheerful and spry as any of them. The smell of the hay-field had a fascination for the old man. He felt new strength since he had breathed its healthful odors. His cheek had browned, and he had learned to eat meat with the men.

Suddenly one of the great clouds shook himself, slowly reared his mighty form, and put his shoulder up against the sun. A cooling shadow swept across the meadow. At the same time he hurled a swift thunder-bolt, and growled in deep and wrathful tones.

"It is going to rain, father," cried James, from the top of the load.

"Drive on," answered the farmer, pitching on the last of a large hay-cock.

Father Brighthopes scratched up the few remaining wisps with his rake, and followed along the wagon-track.

While Mr. Royden and James were transferring the load from the rick to the growing stack in the midst of the meadow, the old man lay upon the grass in the shade to rest. He heard a footstep, and, looking up, saw Mark Wheeler approaching.

"Do you think it is going to rain?" asked the jockey, talking up to Mr. Royden.

"I should not be surprised if we had a shower this evening," replied the farmer, heaving up a heavy forkful to James. "I don't think those clouds will touch us yet a while."

"I can help you just as well as not, if you think there is any danger," rejoined Mark.

"Very well," said Mr. Royden. "It's always safe to be beforehand. If you're a mind to take hold, and help the boys get the hay that's down into shape, I'll do as much for you, some time."

"I owe you work, I believe," replied Mark, throwing off his vest. "Are you going to pitch on to the load out of the win'row?"

"Yes; unless there comes up a shower. If it looks like it, you'll have to get the hay into cocks the quickest way you can."

Mark found a rake by the stack; but still he lingered. He had not seen the clergyman since Monday, and he appeared desirous, yet somewhat ashamed, to speak with him.

"How do you do to-day, friend Mark?" Father Brighthopes said, reading his mind.

The jockey came up to him, where he lay under the stack, and gave him his hand.

"I am well, I thank you," he replied, in a low tone. "I was afraid to speak to you."

"Afraid!"

"Yes, Father. I know you must despise me and hate me."

"No, my son; you misjudge me," answered the old man, with a kindly smile, sitting up, and pressing Mark's hand, as the latter stooped down to him. "On the contrary I am drawn toward you, Mark. There is much in you to love; only overcome these besetting faults, which are your worst enemies."

"I shall try—thank you,"—Mark's voice quivered with emotion. "I haven't forgot what you said to me t'other day. I shall not forget it."

"Do not!" exclaimed the clergyman, earnestly, smiling through the mist that gathered in his eyes. "Go; and God bless you!" he added, tenderly.

The jockey turned away, humble, and much affected. When he came up to where Chester was at work, he spoke to him in a friendly tone, and asked where he should commence.

"Follow after me, if you please," said the young man, with real kindness in his tones.

The quarrel seemed forgotten.

In a little while, Sam came limping to the field with a jug of fresh water. He was beginning to use his sprained ankle again, but he made awkward work of it. Mr. Royden called him, and drank from the jug, having first offered it to Father Brighthopes.

"Any mice, Jim?" asked Sam, slyly.

"We have no time to think of mice, my son," said the clergyman.

At that moment one of the little animals in question ran away from his rake, and took refuge under the wagon.

"I'll ketch him!" said Sam, with eyes sparkling mischief.

"Come, come! no nonsense this afternoon," cried Mr. Royden. "Go and carry the jug to the men. They're wanting it by this time."

"I'm going right along, sir," replied Sam, starting, but looking back for the mouse.

Mr. Royden went on. Turning presently, he saw the boy in hot pursuit of the unhappy mouse. He had forgotten about his lame foot. He was leaping about on the mown sward, and dancing this way and that, with surprising agility.

The truth is, his ankle had been nearly well for two or three days; and he had cherished the convenient habit of hopping and jumping only to excuse himself from labor. Betrayed into running by a mouse, and by his passion for mischief, he confirmed a suspicion which had already entered Mr. Royden's mind.

"Here, you little rascal!" cried the farmer, provoked, but at the same time not a little amused. "Sam Cone!"

Sam did not hear, or would not heed, so enthusiastic was he in the pursuit of fun. At length he made a seizure, with his hand in the turf, and brought up the mouse, screaming with delight.

"I got him! I got him! I g——Blast your pictur'!"

His song changed suddenly from joy to lamentation. The mouse had bit his finger with its sharp teeth, and would not let go. Sam flirted, yelled, and finally shook him off, with much ado. The animal escaped, while he, reflecting probably that it was a small affair to cry about, became silent, and squeezed the oozing drops of blood from his wounds, glancing sheepishly around, to see who was looking at him.

"So, your foot is well enough to chase mice, is it?" said Mr. Royden, with quiet humor. "Now, supposing you should take a rake, and help the men with those win'rows?"

"Got bit!" muttered Sam. "Darned ol' mouse!"

"Shall we send for a doctor?" laughed James.

"His teeth went clear through!" complained Sam, limping again worse than ever, and sucking his finger.

But he did not argue the propriety of obeying the farmer's directions. He carried the jug to the men, and went slowly, limpingly, to work.