Lucy silently obeyed, but Aunt Hepsy could not control her thoughts, and they went pitifully out into the rain after Tom.  He stood a minute or two in a dazed way, and then hurried from the yard, through the garden and the orchard to the meadow.  In one little moment the victory over temper he had won and kept for weeks was gone; and in the shame and sorrow which followed, only one person could help him, and that was Mr. Goldthwaite.  There had been many quiet talks with him since the first Sunday evening, and his lessons had sunk deep into the boy’s heart, and he had indeed been earnestly trying to make the best of the life and work which had no interest nor sweetness for him.  As he sped through the long, wet grass, heedless of the rain pelting on his uncovered head, he felt more wretched than he had ever done in his life before.  He had to wade ankle-deep to the bridge, but fortunately did not encounter a living soul all the way to the parsonage.  Miss Goldthwaite was sewing in the parlour window, and looked up in amazement to see a drenched, bareheaded boy coming up the garden path.

“Why, Tom, it can’t be you, is it?” she exclaimed when she opened the door.  “What is it?  Nobody ill at Thankful Rest, I hope.”

“No,” said Tom.  “It’s only me; I want to see Mr. Goldthwaite.”

“He has just gone out, but will not be many minutes,” said Miss Goldthwaite, more amazed than ever.  “Come in and get dried, and take tea with me; I was just thinking to have it alone.”

Looking at Miss Goldthwaite in her dainty gray dress and spotless lace collar and blue ribbons, Tom began to realize that he had done a foolish thing coming to the parsonage to bother her with his soaking garments.  He would have run off, but Miss Carrie prevented him by pulling him into the lobby and closing the door.  Then she made him come to the kitchen and remove his boots and jacket.  “I have not a coat to fit, so you’ll need to sit in a shawl,” laughed she; and the sound was so infectious that, miserable though he was, Tom laughed too.  Miss Carrie knew perfectly there was a reason for his coming, and that it would come out by-and-by without asking.  So it did.  They had finished tea, and Tom was sitting on a stool at the fire just opposite Miss Goldthwaite.  There had been silence for a little while.

“I had a frightful row with Aunt Hepsy this afternoon, Miss Goldthwaite.”

“I am very sorry to hear it,” answered she very gravely.  “What was it about?”

Then the whole story came out; and then Miss Carrie folded up her work, and bent her sweet eyes on the boy’s downcast, sorrowful face.  “I am not going to lecture you, Tom,” she said soberly.  “But I am sorry my brave soldier should have been such a coward to-day.”

Tom flung up his head a little proudly.  “I am not a coward, Miss Goldthwaite.”

“Yes, Tom; you remember how Jesus stood all the buffeting and cruelty of his persecutors, when he could so easily have smitten them all to death if he had willed.  Compare your petty trials with his, and think how weak you have been.”