The evening was spent, as usual, in relating coarse jokes and playing cards.  Although I was not accustomed to such things at home, I had become so used to it at the mill, that it had long since ceased to shock me, and, indeed, I was getting to enjoy watching the games of the others.

When bedtime came, we were all so busy with our own affairs that we did not notice Charley Allen, until a rude, profane fellow exclaimed:—­

“Heyday! we’ve got a parson here!” sure enough.  Charley was kneeling by the oatbin praying.  But the jest met with no response.  The silence was broken only by the drowsy cattle below, and the twittering swallows overhead.  More than one rough man wiped a tear from his eyes as he went silently to his bed on the hay.

I had always been in the habit of praying at home, but I never thought of such a thing at Saunder’s Mill.

As I laid awake that night in the old barn, thinking of Charley Allen’s courage, and what an effect it had upon the men, I firmly resolved that in the future I would do right.  I little thought how soon my courage would be tested.

[Illustration:  “Did you go through this gate yesterday?”]

Just after dinner I got my grist, and started for home.  When I arrived at Squire Albright’s gate, where I turned off to go home, I found the old squire waiting for me.  I saw in a moment that something had gone wrong.  I had always stood in the greatest awe of the old gentlemen, because he was the rich man of the neighborhood, and, now I felt my heart beginning to beat very fast.  As soon as I came near he said:—­

“Did you go through this gate yesterday?”

I could easily have denied it, as it was before daylight when I went through, and I quite as often went the other way.  But the picture of Charley Allen kneeling in the barn, came to my mind like a flash, and before I had time to listen to the tempter I replied:—­

“Yes, sir; I did.”

“Are you sure you shut and pinned the gate?” he asked.

This question staggered me.  I remembered distinctly that I did not.  I could pull the pin out without getting off my horse, but I could not put it in again; so I carelessly rode away, and left it open.

“I—­I—­I—­”

“Out with it; tell just what you did!”

“I left it open,” I said abruptly.

“Well, you let the cattle in and they have destroyed all my early potatoes,—­a terrible piece of business!”

“I’m very sorry, I’d—­”

“Talking won’t help matters now; but remember, boy, remember that sorrow doesn’t make potatoes,—­sorrow doesn’t make potatoes.”

I felt very bad about the matter, for I was really sorry that the old gentleman had lost his potatoes, and then I expected to be severely reproved at home.  But I soon found that they knew nothing of the matter, and after several days had passed, I began to rest quite easy.