He said nothing of his conversation with Miss Celia, because he had not quite made up his mind whether he liked it or not; it was so new and serious, he felt as if he had better lay it by, to think over a good deal before he could understand all about it. But he had time to get dismal again, and long for four o’clock; because he had nothing to do except whittle. Mrs. Moss went to take a nap; Bab and Betty sat demurely on their bench reading Sunday books; no boys were allowed to come and play; even the hens retired under the currant bushes, and the cock stood among them, clucking drowsily, as if reading them a sermon.

“Dreadful slow day!” thought Ben; and, retiring to the recesses of his own room, he read over the two letters which seemed already old to him. Now that the first shock was over, he could not make it true that his father was dead, and he gave up trying; for he was an honest boy, and felt that it was foolish to pretend to be more unhappy than he really was. So he put away his letters, took the black pocket off Sanch’s neck, and allowed himself to whistle softly as he packed up his possessions, ready to move next day, with few regrets and many bright anticipations for the future.

“Thorny, I want you to be good to Ben, and amuse him in some quiet way this afternoon. I must stay and see the Morrises, who are coming over; but you can go to the grove and have a pleasant time,” said Miss Celia to her brother.

“Not much fun in talking to that horsey fellow. I’m sorry for him, but I can’t do anything to amuse him,” objected Thorny, pulling himself up from the sofa with a great yawn.

“You can be very agreeable when you like; and Ben has had enough of me for this time. Tomorrow he will have his work, and do very well; but we must try to help him through today, because he doesn’t know what to do with himself. Besides, it is just the time to make a good impression on him, while grief for his father softens him, and gives us a chance. I like him, and I’m sure he wants to do well; so it is our duty to help him, as there seems to be no one else.”

“Here goes, then! Where is he?” and Thorny stood up, won by his sister’s sweet earnestness, but very doubtful of his own success with the “horsey fellow.”

“Waiting with the chair. Randa has gone on with the hammock. Be a dear boy, and I’ll do as much for you some day.”

“Don’t see how you can be a dear boy. You’re the best sister that ever was; so I’ll love all the scallywags you ask me to.”

With a laugh and a kiss, Thorny shambled off to ascend his chariot, good-humoredly saluting his pusher, whom he found sitting on the high rail behind, with his feet on Sanch.

“Drive on, Benjamin. I don’t know the way, so I can’t direct. Don’t spill me out — that’s all I’ve got to say.”

“All right, sir”— and away Ben trundled down the long walk that led through the orchard to a little grove of seven pines.

A pleasant spot; for a soft rustle filled the air, a brown carpet of pine needles, with fallen cones for a pattern, lay underfoot; and over the tops of the tall brakes that fringed the knoll one had glimpses of hill and valley, farmhouses and winding river, like a silver ribbon through the low, green meadows.

“A regular summerhouse!” said Thorny, surveying it with approval. “What’s the matter, Randa? Won’t it go?” he asked, as the stout maid dropped her arms with a puff, after vainly trying to throw the hammock rope over a branch.

“That end went up beautiful, but this one won’t; the branches is so high, I can’t reach ’em; and I’m no hand at flinging ropes round.”

“I’ll fix it”; and Ben went up the pine like a squirrel, tied a stout knot, and swung himself down again before Thorny could get out of the chair.

“My patience, what a spry boy!” exclaimed Randa, admiringly.

“That’s nothing; you ought to see me shin up a smooth tent pole,” said Ben, rubbing the pitch off his hands, with a boastful wag of the head.

“You can go, Randa. Just hand me my cushion and books, Ben; then you can sit in the chair while I talk to you,” commanded Thorny, tumbling into the hammock.

“What’s he goin’ to say to me?” wondered Ben to himself, as he sat down with Sanch sprawling among the wheels.

“Now, Ben, I think you’d better learn a hymn; I always used to when I was a little chap, and it is a good thing to do Sundays,” began the new teacher, with a patronizing air, which ruffled his pupil as much as the opprobrious term “little chap.”

“I’ll be — whew — if I do!” whistled Ben, stopping an oath just in time.

“It is not polite to whistle in company,” said Thorny, with great dignity.

“Miss Celia told me to. I’ll say ‘confound it,’ if you like that better,” answered Ben, as a sly smile twinkled in his eyes.

“Oh, I see! She’s told you about it? Well, then, if you want to please her, you’ll learn a hymn right off. Come, now, she wants me to be clever to you, and I’d like to do it; but if you get peppery, how can I?”

Thorny spoke in a hearty, blunt way, which suited Ben much better than the other, and he responded pleasantly—

“If you won’t be grand I won’t be peppery. Nobody is going to boss me but Miss Celia; so I’ll learn hymns if she wants me to.”

” ‘In the soft season of thy youth’ is a good one to begin with. I learned it when I was six. Nice thing; better have it.” And Thorny offered the book like a patriarch addressing an infant.

Ben surveyed the yellow page with small favor, for the long s in the old-fashioned printing bewildered him; and when he came to the last two lines, he could not resist reading them wrong—

“The earth affords no lovelier fight

Than a religious youth.”

“I don’t believe I could ever get that into my head straight. Haven’t you got a plain one anywhere round?” he asked, turning over the leaves with some anxiety.

“Look at the end, and see if there isn’t a piece of poetry pasted in. You learn that, and see how funny Celia will look when you say it to her. She wrote it when she was a girl, and somebody had it printed for other children. I like it best, myself.”

Pleased by the prospect of a little fun to cheer his virtuous task, Ben whisked over the leaves, and read with interest the lines Miss Celia had written in her girlhood—

“MY KINGDOM

“A little kingdom I possess,

Where thoughts and feelings dwell;

And very hard I find the task

Of governing it well.

For passion tempts and troubles me,

A wayward will misleads,

And selfishness its shadow casts

On all my words and deeds.

“How can I learn to rule myself,

To be the child I should—

Honest and brave — nor ever tire

Of trying to be good?

How can I keep a sunny soul

To shine along life’s way?

How can I tune my little heart

To sweetly sing all day?

“Dear Father, help me with the love

That casteth out my fear!

Teach me to lean on thee, and feel

That thou art very near;

That no temptation is unseen,

No childish grief too small,

Since Thou, with patience infinite,

Doth soothe and comfort all.

“I do not ask for any crown,

But that which all may win;

Nor seek to conquer any world

Except the one within.

Be Thou my guide until I find,

Led by a tender hand,

Thy happy kingdom in myself,

And dare to take command.”

“I like that!” said Ben, emphatically, when he had read the little hymn. “I understand it, and I’ll learn it right away. Don’t see how she could make it all come out so nice and pretty.”

“Celia can do anything!” and Thorny gave an all-embracing wave of the hand, which forcibly expressed his firm belief in his sister’s boundless powers.

“I made some poetry once. Bab and Betty thought it was first-rate.