Mr. Royden got upon the stack with James, and, to hasten this department of the afternoon's work, Mark Wheeler and one of the laborers pitched up the load.

They had now commenced drawing from the windrows where they had been longest exposed to the curing process of the sun. On their return, Chester complained of Sam's laziness, declaring that he was only in the way.

"I'm lame, and you know it," said Sam, in an injured tone.

"Very lame, I know, you ambitious mouse-catcher!" said Mr. Royden. "I'll favor your broken leg. Here, if you can't rake hay, get up on the rick with James. See if you two can load as fast as Mark and I can pitch."

"Get up," cried Mark. "We'll find something for you to do."

Mark was a giant at pitching. He rolled up vast forkfuls, with which he inundated Sam at every rod. The latter had no time for fun; the moment he paused, up came a perfect cloud of hay, which he must dispose of, or be buried.

A towering load went to the stack. By the time the rick was emptied, the clouds, which had made no show of hostilities for some time, sent out a detachment that swept across the sky, black and threatening, wheeling and darkening the field.

"I vow," said Mark, "that looks like rain!"

"Rain—sure enough!" articulated Mr. Royden, with a troubled expression.

"A big sprinkle struck me right on the nose," cried Sam.

"I wish we had got up the hay that was down, the first thing after dinner, and left the cocks," said the farmer, pricking the horses. "I would have risked it in the stack, if I had known it was so well cured. If there should come up a rain, it would be spoilt."

There was real danger, and each man went to work as if the hay was all his own.

"Don't pitch so fast as you did afore, Mark," whined Sam. "You 'most covered me up, fifteen or sixteen times."

"It'll do you good," replied the jockey, heaving a fraction of a ton from the heavy windrow directly upon Sam's head. "Tread it down!"

Father Brighthopes, who had been some time sitting by the stack, to rest his old limbs, observed the threatening clouds, and came out again with his rake.

"You'd better go to the house, Father," said Mr. Royden, in a hurried tone. "I would not have you get wet and take cold for ten times the worth of the hay."

But the old man would not leave the field, which was now a busy and exciting scene. The storm seemed inevitable. Getting the hay into cocks that would shed rain, Chester and the men worked almost miraculously. It seemed as if they had husbanded their strength during the week for this crisis. They were not jaded and disheartened laborers, but bold and active workmen.

Meanwhile the new load swelled and loomed up prodigiously.

"When I give the word, James," cried Mr. Royden, "drive to the stack as straight as you can go. It must be topped off somehow, before it gets wet."

The clouds roared and wheeled in the sky. The lightnings were vivid and frequent. The sultry air grew rapidly cool, and there was a gale rising. A deep gloom had settled upon all the earth, coloring the scene of hurried labor with a tinge of awfulness, as if some dread event were impending.

A few heavy drops came hissing down upon the hay.

"Drive to the stack, James!" cried the farmer. "Go with what you have got."

"Take the rest of this win'row," said Mark; "hadn't we better? I can heave it up in a minute."

"Be quick, then; for we must secure the stack."

"If the shower will hold off ten minutes, I do believe the boys will have the rest of the hay safe in the cock," observed Father Brighthopes. "How they work!"

The shower did hold off wonderfully. Mark and Mr. Royden threw on the remainder of the windrow, making a large, unshapely load.

With a feeling of triumph, the farmer saw the horses start at a quick pace for the stack.

"The rain is coming!" said the jockey, glancing at a dark fringe of showers dropped from the thunder-clouds over the woods.

"It must come, then!" returned Mr. Royden. "We can pitch enough on the stack, though, to make it shed rain, I hope. The rest of the load we will run right into the barn."

The farmer sprang to a stone-heap, where he had left his coat, seized it, and threw it over the old clergyman's shoulders.

"Walk fast," cried he, "and you will get to the barn before the shower."

"A little rain won't hurt me, if I keep at work," replied Father Brighthopes. "I'll stay and help the boys."

Mr. Royden remonstrated in vain. A cry from Mark called his attention from the old man.

"That load will be off!"

The farmer uttered an exclamation of impatience. The great bulk of hay, thrown on in such haste, and trampled down without much regard to shape or order by the boys, was reeling over the side of the rick. James, encumbered with the reins, scrambled to the left as fast as he could, to keep the balance, calling upon Sam to do the same. But the latter was too busily engaged in tying a straw around a large horse-fly to heed the danger.

Mark and Mr. Royden ran to steady the load with their forks; but suddenly one of the wagon-wheels fell into a little hollow, and they had scarcely time to escape from the avalanche, as it plunged over them, and settled like a cloud upon the ground.

About a third of the load remained on the wagon, which fortunately did not upset; and James had skilfully managed, not only to stop the horses, but to avoid falling off, when the great bulk went over. Not so with Sam. Deep buried in the soft bed he had made, he was too late to save himself, when he discovered the reality of the danger. It was lucky he did not fall upon Mark's fork. As it was, he came down easily, with a very small portion of the load under him, and a very large portion sweeping down upon him. He was quite buried from sight; but in a moment his head appeared amid the billows of hay, and he floundered upon the firm ground.

Sam hardly knew what had taken place. At first he stared about him, looking at the wagon, and its contents on the ground; then he examined the straw, which he still held firmly clasped in his right hand.

"Thunder and broomsticks!" cried he, "if the darned old load an't off! and I've lost my horse-fly!"

Everybody else, except this thoughtless lover of mischief, who witnessed the disaster, expected to see Mr. Royden thrown into a violent passion. Father Brighthopes feared that his patience could not hold out. But the irritable farmer had not exercised his temper during the week to no purpose. He astonished everybody by his coolness.

"So much for being in a hurry," said he. "I ought not to have expected such a load to ride across the lot. Now let us be more deliberate, and do well what we do at all. There's no use of crying for an accident that cannot be helped."

He and Mark took hold, and threw on enough hay to bind what was left on the rick; and James drove on, just as a sharp shower was commencing. It grew very dark, and they topped off the stack in the rain. But the clouds acted very capriciously. After sifting a little water, they wheeled away to the south, where the rain could be seen streaking down over the woods. But there was no more of it on the meadow for some time; and when at last it began to come down in volleys, the stack was secured, the hay left in the field was thrown up in shapely cocks, the load which had fallen off was once more on the rick and going into the barn, the horses on a keen trot; and the laborers, shouldering their rakes, were hastening from the field.

Mr. Royden was never in better humor than when he found the old clergyman, somewhat heated, and perspiring freely, wrapped up in his great mantle, in the kitchen corner, prattling with George and Willie, who had just come home from school.