"I don't care; I can't help it," said the boy recklessly. "It isn't anything for you to be good, Lucy; you are just like mamma--a kind of saint, I think. For me it is just a long battle all day. If a fellow conquered in the end, it would not matter; but as it is--O Lucy, Lucy! why did mamma die? It was so easy to be happy and good when we had her to love and help us. I wish I were dead too."

Poor, proud, pa.s.sionate Tom! His sister could only put her gentle arm about his neck and cry too, her heart so sorely re-echoed the painful longing in his voice.

So the first day at Thankful Rest did not promise very brightly for Tom and Lucy Hurst.

V.

SUNDAY

Sat.u.r.day was the busiest day in the week at Thankful Rest. There was churning to be done, extra cooking for Sunday, mending and darning, and the weekly polishing of every bit of bra.s.s, and copper, and tin in the establishment. Lucy rubbed at them till her arms ached, without bringing them to the required height of brightness, and was at last sent off to pick the few remaining gooseberries for a tart.

That was a piece of work much more to her liking, and she lingered so long out in the sunshine that Aunt Hepsy came at last, and scolded her long and shrilly; which took all the enjoyment away. Tom received his lessons from Uncle Josh outside; and, judging from his face when he came in at dinner-time, he had not found them particularly agreeable. Tom Hurst was a dainty youth, in fact, and shrank from soiling his fingers with the tasks allotted to him: and seeing that grim Uncle Josh had not spared him, the forenoon had been one long battle; for, try as he might, Tom could not keep a bridle on his tongue.

"I guess I'll hev a pesky deal o' trouble with that young 'un, Hepsy," his uncle said that night when the children had gone to bed.

"He doesn't take to farm work; an' he's that peart I durstn't speak to him. Queer thing if we've got to keep the young upstart in idleness."

"Idleness!" quoth Miss Hepsy wrathfully. "I'd take a rope's end to him if he didn't keep a civil tongue in his head. The gal's bad enough; though she never speaks back she looks at me that proud-like wi' them great eyes o' her'n, I feel as if I'd like to shake her.

There'll never be a day's peace now they've come."

"Tell ye what, though, Hepsy," said Josh. "I'm gwine to pay off Brahm, an' make Tom do his work. He ain't that much younger, an' he looks strong enough! Couldn't you do without Keziah, and that would square expenses?"

"I'll see how the child turns out in a week or so. She's a pinin'

thing--doesn't eat enough to keep a mouse alive."

"It's a thankless thing, any way ye like to take it, Hepsy, hevin'

other folks' youngsters round. I don't see why we should be bothered with 'em;" with which remark Josh went to bed.

Lucy awoke next morning, remembering it was Sunday, with a feeling of gladness that they might perhaps chance to see their friend Mr.

Goldthwaite at church. The Strongs were regular as clock-work in their half-day attendance at the meeting-house. The morn'ng was devoted to feeding cattle, pigs, and poultry, and tidying up the house; and after dinner the premises were left in charge of Brahm and Keziah, and the master and mistress turned their footsteps towards Pendlepoint. The meeting-house was almost close to the parsonage, and was a pretty, primitive structure, with no attempt at display or decoration, and yet so pleasant and homelike inside that Lucy felt a sense of rest as her eyes wandered round it. Tom nudged her and whispered, "Nice little chapel, Lucy;" at which Miss Hepsy held up a warning finger and shook her head. Tom blushed and laughed, Aunt Hepsy looked so intensely comical. Then she became very red in the face, and opening her hymn-book, kept her eyes on its pages till Mr.

Goldthwaite came in. His eyes travelled straight to the Strongs' pew, and Lucy thought she saw a kindly gleam of recognition in his eyes.

Carrie was at the harmonium. She, too, looked once or twice in their direction; and both children found her face so sweet and pleasant that they could not lift their eyes off it. The chapel was full, and the singing of the hymn was so hearty and so sweet, that Lucy felt her eyes dim, she could not tell why. But it seemed to remind her of her mother.

Mr. Goldthwaite preached only half an hour; but his sermon was so beautiful and comforting, and so easily understood, that Lucy thought Sunday would recompense her for all the troubles of the week. Tom's eyes never left Mr. Goldthwaite's earnest face, and I believe that the memory of his words remained with the boy for weeks after. He had never heard a sermon in his life he had understood and _felt_ like this one. Uncle Josh snored rather noisily in the corner, and Aunt Hepsy nodded occasionally over her Bible--the minister's message did not even reach their ears.

When the service was over and they reached the church porch, they found Miss Goldthwaite standing there. She had a nod and a smile for every one, but her particular mission was with Tom and Lucy. She shook hands with the uncle and aunt, and then bent her sweet eyes on the children's faces.

"These be Hetty's children, Miss Goldthwaite," said Miss Hepsy. "Lucy and Tom."

"Yes, I know," nodded Miss Goldthwaite. "I came round to see them. I want them to take tea with me to-day, at my brother's special request."

Miss Hepsy did not look at all delighted. "They'll jes' bother ye, Miss Goldthwaite," said she; "an' besides, 'taint no use visitin' on Sundays--I don't like it."

"It's hardly visiting, Miss Hepsy," said the young lady in the same pleasant voice. "And when they are at Pendlepoint you may as well let them. We will bring them safely home. Come now, Miss Hepsy, you know n.o.body ever refuses me anything."

"Let them bide, Hepsy," said Uncle Josh, remembering what trouble and expense the minister had spared him, and not wishing to appear so unmindful of it. "I guess they won't come to no harm at the parson's."

So Miss Hepsy was forced to grant a reluctant consent, and Miss Carrie bore off the happy children in triumph. At the parsonage gate Mr. Goldthwaite joined them, and gave them both a hearty welcome.

Even shy Lucy was at her ease immediately with Miss Carrie; for who could resist that bright, caressing manner, and those beaming, loving eyes? She carried Lucy off to her own pretty room to take off her hat, and kept her there talking and showing her the beautiful view from the window till Mr. Goldthwaite had to call to them to come to tea. What a pleasant meal it was, and how the little company enjoyed themselves. Then, when it was over, Mr. Goldthwaite took Tom to the garden, and drew him on to talk of himself, of his hopes and ambitions, and sympathized so heartily and cheerfully with him that Tom began to think it was worth while coming to Thankful Rest, if for nothing else than this pleasant hour at the parsonage. Meanwhile Carrie had opened the piano, and sang low and softly one or two hymns; and when she looked round, wondering why Lucy had moved from her side, she saw her on the sofa with her face hidden. She rose, and sitting down beside her, put her arm about her, and whispered gently,--

"My poor child, what is it?"

"Mamma, Miss Goldthwaite," sobbed Lucy. "She used always to sing to us on Sunday evenings just so, and it makes me feel dreadful to think she never will any more."

"Yes, Lucy, I understand," said Carrie; and the very sound of her voice soothed the child's troubled heart. "But you know who has promised to comfort the mourning heart if we will but ask Him? Our G.o.d is 'the Father of mercies, and the G.o.d of all comfort.'"

A quick smile broke through Lucy's tears. "If it were not for that, Miss Goldthwaite," she said simply, "I should have died when mamma did."

"And just think, dear," went on the sweet voice, "of the glad time coming when we shall all meet, please G.o.d, in a happier world than this. We shall not remember these sad hours then, shall we, Lucy? I know, my dear, how lonely and sad and strange you feel here now; but G.o.d can make us happy anywhere."

"Yes, Miss Carrie, I know it," returned the child simply and earnestly; "only I am so troubled sometimes about Tom. Mamma was often troubled about him too. He is so pa.s.sionate and quick and proud. Oh, I don't know how he is to get on with Uncle Joshua and Aunt Hepsy!"

"We will hope for the best," said Miss Carrie cheerfully; "and by-and-by, perhaps, a way may be opened up for him to get his heart's desire.--Would you like to see my pets, Lucy? I have chickens, and pigeons, and dogs, and kittens, and all sorts of things. Frank says the yard is a menagerie."

"Yes, I would like it very much. There are some pretty chickens and kittens at Aunt Hepsy's, but she won't let me pet them."

In the delight of examining Miss Goldthwaite's menagerie sadder thoughts flew, and the evening sped on golden wings. The time came at last for the two to bid a regretful good-bye to the parsonage and turn their faces homewards. The minister and his sister accompanied them half across the meadow, and bade them good-night, with many promises of future meetings.

Tom and Lucy walked on in silence till they reached the paddock, and then the lad said abruptly, "It will not be so hard to live here, Lucy, if we can see them sometimes. I don't believe there's another minister like Mr. Goldthwaite in the State; nor another minister's sister either."

Lucy smiled, her heart re-echoing her brother's words.

"I have not felt so happy since mamma died," she said softly. "O Tom, is it not true what she used to say--'That G.o.d gives us something to be grateful for everywhere'?"

"Yes," said Tom soberly; and the next moment Aunt Hepsy's tall figure appeared at the kitchen door, and her shrill voice broke the pleasant Sabbath calm.

"Here, come in, you two. Air you going to stand there all night? It's 'most nine o'clock--time you were in bed. I guess you won't go visitin' on Sunday any more."

VI.

LOSING HOLD OF THE BRIDLE.

It had rained all day, and not all that day only, but the best part of the one before. Not a soft, gentle summer rain, but a fierce, wild storm, which beat the poor flowers to the earth, spoiled the fruit, and overflowed the river till half the meadow lay under water. There was plenty of work in the barn for Uncle Josh and the men, and plenty in the house for Aunt Hepsy and the girls. The scullery was full of wet clothes waiting on a dry day. That of itself, not to speak of the damage to the orchard, was sufficient to make Aunt Hepsy a very disagreeable person to live with while the storm lasted. Her tongue went from early morning till afternoon, scolding alternately at Lucy and Keziah. The latter was a stolid being, on whom her mistress's talking made no impression; but it made Lucy nervous and awkward, and her work was very badly done indeed. At three o'clock Aunt Hepsy sent her to wash her face, and gave her a long side of a sheet to hem. So Lucy was sitting on the settle, with a very grave and sorrowful-looking face, when Tom came in at four. His uncle had no need of him just then, and had sent him to the house to be out of the way. Keziah was feeding the calves, and Aunt Hepsy upstairs dressing, if that word can be appropriately applied to the slight change her toilet underwent in the afternoon. Tom sat down at the table in the window, and leaning his arms upon it, looked out gloomily on the desolate garden, over which the chill, wet mist hung like a pall.

Neither spoke for several minutes.

"How do you get on now, Lucy?" asked Tom at length. "How sober you look. Has she been worrying you?"

"I daresay I am very stupid," said Lucy low and quietly; "but when Aunt Hepsy talks so loud I don't know what I am doing."

Miss Hepsy entered at that moment, fortunately without having heard Lucy's patient speech. "Don't lean your wet, dirty arms on the table, boy," said she with a sharp glance at Tom. "If you must be in, sit on your chair like a Christian."

Tom immediately sat up like a poker.

"What's yer uncle doin'?" was her next question.

"He's oiling waggon wheels," answered Tom, "and sent me in."