His father came to the door and called him.  “Nathaniel!”

He sprang up with guilty haste and went toward the house.  A shriveling change of expression came over him.

The minister began, “A wise son heareth his father’s instructions; but a scorner heareth not rebuke.”

“I hear you, father.”

“Why did you linger in the garden and forget your duty?”

“I—­I cannot tell you, father.”

“Do you mean you do not know why?”

“I cannot say I do not know.”

“Then answer me.”

Nathaniel broke out desperately, “I cannot, father—­I know no words—­I was—­it is so warm—­the sun shines—­the birches are out—­I was glad——­”

The minister bowed his head sadly.  “Aye, even as I thought.  Sinful lust of the eye draggeth you down to destruction.  You whose salvation even now hangs in the balance, for whose soul I wrestle every night in prayer that you may be brought to the conviction of sin, ‘you were glad.’  Remember the words, ’If I prefer not Jerusalem above my chief joy, may my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth.’”

Nathaniel made no reply.  He caught at the door, looking up wretchedly at his father.  When the minister turned away without speaking again, he drew a long breath of relief.

Breakfast was always a silent meal in the Everett house, but on Sabbath mornings the silence had a heavy significance.  The preacher was beginning then to work himself up to the pitch of storming fervor which made his sermons so notable, and his wife and son cowered under the unspoken emanations of the passion which later poured so terribly from the pulpit.  The Reverend Mr. Everett always ate very heartily on Sabbath mornings, but Nathaniel usually pushed his plate away.

As a rule he walked to church between his father and his mother, like a little child, although he was now a tall lad of sixteen, but to-day he was sent back for a psalm-book, forgotten in the hurry of their early start.  When he set out again the rest of the village folk were all in the meeting-house.  The sight of the deserted street, walled in by the forest, lying drowsily in the spring sunshine, was like balm to him.  He loitered along, free from observation, his eyes shining.  A fat, old negro woman sat on a doorstep in the sun, the only other person not in meeting.  She was a worn-out slave, from a Connecticut seaport, who had been thrown in for good measure in a sharp bargain driven by the leading man of Hillsboro.  A red turban-like cloth was bound above her black face, she rested her puffy black arms across her knees and crooned a monotonous refrain.  Although the villagers regarded her as imbecile, they thought her harmless, and Nathaniel nodded to her as he passed.  She gave him a rich laugh and a “Good morrow, Marse Natty, good morrow!”