lly, 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