monday morning had come, with work for the workers and pleasure for the pleasure-seekers. the curate at kulleby was one of the workers, and yet monday, instead of sunday, was really his day of rest. his last sermon having been delivered, fairly given over to his hearers to be digested, the new one was not to be begun before tuesday. there must be one day in the week in which to draw a free breath before the real labour of his life was to be recommenced. the introduction to the discourse once mastered, as the first link, he added day by day to the lengthening chain—a perpetual wearying weight to him, and, it might be supposed, to become so for his hearers.
this would be a mistake. had the curate preached in hebrew or greek, the reverent faces would have been respectfully turned towards him, with the honest[pg 64] conviction that somehow or other the listeners were undergoing a helpful and uplifting process through what the curate was pleased to say to them. he was reverenced and beloved, as he well deserved to be, and was to his people the bearer of good tidings—the messenger of peace. he was the message to them, through what he was and what he was striving to be, and not through those painfully-produced sermons.
now for the morning he had dropped the pastor, and was simply the family father.
the humble home of the curate was separated from the public road by a great grass plot, through which a wide walk went straight, without a curve or a compromise, from the gate to the foot of the high wooden steps that led to the ever-open door.
the saturday evening rake-marks were on the loose sand of the path, for the family had on sunday, though in their holiday garments, used the side gate that led to the entrance at the back of the house. the garden was large and well cared for. now the weekly weeding was going on, the father sitting like a general at a distance from the battle, but in constant communication with the soldiers in full fight in the cause of order, fruitfulness, and prosperity. the four small boys who were working so busily were[pg 65] not under strict military discipline, for free conversation was allowed so long as the hands continued as busy as the tongues.
the curate sat on a roughly-made but comfortable garden sofa, and was knitting on a strong stocking in sweet composure. a gay-coloured parallelogram stared out from the grass beside him; for there, covered with a patchwork quilt, lay, in a great basket, the baby, the little girl, the pride of the household, fast asleep. so the curate could not be said to be exactly idle, though he was taking a delicious morning rest. his wife meanwhile—a large-hearted, practical woman—was making all things comfortable in the house, with the help of her efficient aide-de-camp, an orphan girl snatched from the influences of the poorhouse. where a specially strong arm was required, the curate himself was at all times to be relied upon. he was not only a hewer of wood, but often a bearer of wood as well as of water. he was, too, an embodied guild of all mechanical trades, and might have been warranted to use skilfully at a pinch any tools whatever.
the curate gave a start as the click of the front gate was heard, and almost impatiently wondered who could be coming.[pg 66]
a tall young woman walked rapidly along the rake-marked walk, and dotted it at regular intervals with the distinct portrait of the soles of her strong and well-made boots.
she went up the steps decidedly, and entered the house without knocking, as any ordinary visitor might have done. in a moment more she appeared in the garden, with the curate's wife at her side. he stood up and bowed awkwardly, and then looked inquiringly at the new-comer. he recognized at once in her the stranger who had sat near the chancel the day before, though her dress was somewhat different from her sunday attire. she wore a black sailor hat, from which she had that morning removed the uplifted wings that threatened to take the whole head-gear upward, and had left only the broad, bright band that wound round it. she wore a short, dark travelling dress that well displayed her new boots. the visitor did not wait for the curate to speak, but said quickly, "i will only detain you a moment. can you tell me where widow marget erikson lives, the old woman who sat in front, on the side benches, in the church yesterday?"
"marget erikson? her i know very well, but it is not so easy to tell where she lives," answered the[pg 67] curate, with at the same time an inquiring glance at the stranger. a look of intelligence came into his face, and he said: "it is not—it cannot be! no," and he turned to the group of small boys, now all standing, some of them weeds in hand, wonderingly regarding the stranger. "here, kael," said the father, singling out a fair-haired, intelligent-looking little fellow, "you can show the young lady the way to widow marget erikson's." again there was a scrutinizing, questioning look on the part of the pastor.
a slight flush tinged the cheek of the stranger. she was turning away with her guide, when the boy said hastily, "where's the basket, mamma?"
"there'll be no basket to-day," she answered, almost with a smile. "you can take marget this instead from me," and she picked from her favourite bush a large, half-open rosebud, with a long stem and rich, shining leaves.
the boy could hardly understand the love-prompted courtesy that would not send to the widow what might to a stranger seem like alms, but which really was but the sharing of what one poor christian had with a poorer.
the guide trotted off with his bare feet across the meadow, where a little path showed that he was not[pg 68] the first to find a direct way from the parsonage to the widow's cottage.
"well, wife? well, anna?" said the pastor, and looked inquiringly into the face of his best-beloved, as he generally did when he was in doubt or difficulty. it was a face that any one might have been pleased to look upon. it had in it the bright cheeriness of a child, and at the same time dignity and a wisdom in this world's matters, as well as "the wisdom that cometh from above." he received no answer, and so said himself: "she was in church yesterday when you were at little fia's death-bed. i could hardly help thinking of you and the child when i was in the midst of my sermon. the miller told me afterwards that 'miss' and the little girl were with possessionaten something, a traveller who had stopped at the inn by the cross-road."
there was a sudden end put to the conversation by a loud cry from the baby, which swept all other expressions from the face of the pastor's wife, where at once mother love was triumphant.
