It was evening when the company dispersed. Father Brighthopes took affectionate leave of each individual, and had a kind and hopeful word for every one. They seemed to be bidding farewell to some beloved old patriarch, who had lived all his days amongst them.

The clergyman was left alone with his friends, the Roydens. The evening was spent in sober, sweet communion. In the morning the family was up early; for the old man was to be off at eight o'clock.

"Oh, we cannot express how much we owe to you, good Father!" exclaimed Mrs. Royden, with tears of thankfulness in her eyes, on meeting him in the parlor. "My husband seems a different man since you have been with us. And you have taught me a lesson I shall endeavor to profit by. It is hard to overcome fixed habits, and I know I shall often and often—as I do now every day—yield to the dictates of my harsh temper; but I trust I shall come off conqueror in the end!"

"We are all weak, of ourselves," said the old man, affectionately. "But there is One who giveth strength."

Father Brighthopes found an opportunity to have a farewell talk with poor Hepsy. She could not bear the thought of his going away. This was now her only sorrow; for he had filled her soul with immortal hopes, and taught her to endure patiently all the ills of life. But she feared lest she might go back into the dark, when he was no longer near to reflect the light from above upon her spirit. Had he not promised to write to her, she would hardly have been consoled for his loss; as it was, it seemed as if the sun was going into a dense, cold mist.

At length the breakfast was out of the way; the old man had offered up his morning prayer in presence of the family, as, by request of the parents, he had been accustomed to do, of late; his trunks were packed and ready, and the time had come to say the last farewells.

James brought the horse to the door, at sight of which Willie just began to comprehend that the old man was really going.

"I want to go too!" he cried, clinging to his knees.

Father Brighthopes stooped to kiss his plump brown cheek.

"Oh, let me go!" exclaimed Georgie, who had not thought of such an arrangement before.

"Would you go and leave your father and mother, and Chester and James, and all?" asked the clergyman.

"You show me how to do my sums better than they do; and you give me story-books," replied Georgie, bashfully.

"And they do a thousand times more for you," said the old man, embracing the boy. "They give you clothes, and food, and send you to school, and do more things for you than anybody can think of."

"Oh, you will come again next summer, won't you, Father?" cried Lizzie, kissing him impulsively, when his head was down.

"I am too old and feeble to make any promise for another year," replied Father Brighthopes, smiling tenderly. "But I shall come and see you all again, if Providence grant me that indulgence. Be this as it may, I shall always remember you and love you."

How gently then he kissed the affectionate girl! He turned and gave his hand to Sarah, whose eyes filled with tears as she received his blessing.

Mr. Royden took the old man's arm, and led him to the wagon.

"But where is Samuel? I must not neglect him," said Father Brighthopes.

At that moment a groaning was heard behind the shed, under the tree where the grindstone stood.

"Is that Sam?" asked Mr. Royden.

"Yes, sir," replied James. "Something is the matter with him; I don't know what it is. He was taken sick when we were harnessing."

"What is the matter, my son?" asked the old man, cheerily, looking over the gate.

Sam lay upon the turf, with his head on his arm, for a pillow.

"Nothing," he muttered, in a ghastly tone, without looking up.

"Come, I am going away. I want to bid you good-bye."

Sam groaned again; but endeavoring to conquer his malady, he sat up, and raised his swimming eyes. Mr. Royden took him by the shoulder, and helped him to his feet.

"What is the matter?" he demanded.

"Nothing, sir," said Sam. "I'm a little sick, that's all. I shall have to set down again."

He sank upon the turf, and groaned, with his face in the grass.

Father Brighthopes was expressing a great deal of sympathy for him, when Chester came and explained the mystery.

"He has been chewing tobacco," said he, with a cruel laugh. "I told him it would make him sick."

"You foolish fellow!" exclaimed Mr. Royden; "what did you do that for?"

"I only jest wanted to learn how," moaned Sam.

"Learn how!"

"'Cos all the men chew," added the boy, sitting up again, and burying his face in his hands, as the deathly feeling came over him once more.

"Well, well," said the old man, in an encouraging tone, "let this experience be a lesson to you. Let alone the weed. You can be a man without it, if you try. Good-by, good-by, my son!"

He got into the wagon, leaving the unhappy lad still moaning and writhing with anguish on the green-sward.

Mark Wheeler arrived at the gate, having come to take leave of Father Brighthopes, just as Chester and his father were driving away with their aged friend.

The jockey rode the one-eyed colt, which he still retained in his possession,—a perpetual remembrancer of a memorable day in his rugged and uneven life.

He dismounted, and shook hands with the old man. Mark was much affected by his kind wishes and gentle admonitions; but the presence of Mr. Royden and Chester embarrassed him, and he could not express his feelings.

"Come," said Mr. Royden, observing the state of affairs, "I suppose we have not much time to lose."

"I will ride along with you," replied Mark, throwing himself upon the back of the one-eyed colt.

Mrs. Royden, Hepsy and the children, watched the little party as they rode away, Chester driving, while his father sat with the gray-haired clergyman on the seat behind him, and Mark trotted his colt along on the road-side, at their right hand; and they who were left at home felt strange emotions of loneliness steal over their hearts, at the thought that the venerable and beloved form then vanishing from sight might never more repose beneath that roof.

There was no quarreling nor loud words among the children, that morning, as they set out for school; but their faces were expressive of unusual soberness, and their young hearts quite sad; until the bright birds singing by the way-side, the breezes playing in their hair, and the sunshine flooding all the earth, dispelled their gloom, and led them to forget that the gentle old man they loved was riding on his journey, to his field of labor far away.