“You never feared rain—­quite the other way.”

“Tell them to me now, mother.  It is your duty, you know,” and John laughed and bent forward and took in his large brown hand the plump, small, white one she put out to meet his.

“Well then, listen John, and see thou mind them: 

    “The rain has spoiled the farmer’s day,
    Shall weather put my work away? 
      Thereby are two days lost. 
    Nature shall mind her own affairs,
    I will attend my proper cares,
      In rain or sun or frost.”

And the days went busily forward and John though he counted off day by day was happy.  Every loom he had was busy overtime.  His manufactured goods, woven in such stress and sorrow, were selling well, his cotton sheds were filling rapidly.  Men and women were beginning to sing at their work again, for as one result of the day John spent with Harlow, his lordship had opened a plain, good, and very cheap furniture store, where the workers in cotton factories could renew on easy installments the furniture they had sold for a mouthful of bread.  It was known only as “The Hatton Furniture Store” and John Hatton, while denying any share in its business, stood as guarantee for its honesty, and no one was afraid to open an account there.  It really seemed as if Hatton village had never before been so busy, so hopeful, and so full of life.  The factory bell had never sounded so cheerful.  The various societies and civic brotherhood meetings never had been so crowded and so cordial.  Old quarrels and grudges had died out and had been forgotten forever while men and women broke their last crust of bread together or perhaps clemmed themselves to help feed the children of the very man that had wronged them.  Consequent on these pleasant surroundings, Hatton Chapel was crowded, the singing-pew held the finest voices in the countryside, and there was such a renewal of religious interest that Greenwood chose the most jubilant hymn tunes he could find in all Methodist Psalmody.

Then suddenly in spite of all these pleasant happenings strange misgivings began to mix with John’s days and cross and darken his hours of rest.  Every morning he got his London letter, always full of love and satisfactions, yet uncalled-for and very unlikely apprehensions came into his thoughts and had power to shake his soul as they passed.  He was angry at himself.  He called himself ungrateful to God who had so wonderfully helped him.  He prayed earnestly for a thankful, joyful spirit, and he assumed the virtue of cheerfulness though he was far from feeling it.  But he said nothing of this delusive temper to his mother.  He was in reality ashamed of his depression, for he knew

    Love that is true must hush itself,
      Nor pain by its useless cry;
    For the young don’t care, and the old must bear,
      And Time goes by—­goes by.

One morning John said to his mother, “Today Martha is queen of the May.  Tomorrow they will pack, and do their last shopping and on Friday afternoon they promise to be home.  The maids and men will be all in their places by tonight, and I think Jane will be pleased with the changes I have made.”