e Chap, in triumph: "the
teacher says, too, that parsons are not a whit better than other
folks."

"Is that true?" said the old woman, sadly.

"What I mean is," replied the teacher, "that all men can go to heaven;
but a clerical man who is as he should be, and labors diligently for
the welfare of souls, occupies a higher grade."

"I think so too," assented the old woman. The perspiration was
gathering on the poor teacher's forehead; but the relentless student
began again:--"Isn't it your opinion, Mr. Teacher, that clergymen ought
to marry?"

"It is the canon of the Church that they must remain single; and any
one who takes orders with a perfect understanding of his own actions
must obey the law."

"I think so too," said the old lady, with great vehemence: "those that
want to get married are devils of the flesh, and clergymen must be
spiritual and not carnal. I'll tell you what: don't speak to him any
more at all; don't let him spoil your good heart. He has his wicked
day, and he isn't as bad neither as he makes himself out to be."

Finding his grandmother proof against all assaults, the College Chap
went away in an ill humor. The teacher also took his leave: again had a
fine and tender relationship been rudely jarred. Not till he reached
his dwelling did he succeed in conquering his depression and steeling
himself against these unavoidable accidents.

On Sunday he at last found another opportunity to converse with Hedwig.
He found her sitting with the old schoolmaster in his garden. They did
not appear to have spoken much together.

After a few customary salutations, the teacher began:--"How fine and
elevated a thing it is that the seventh day is hallowed by religion and
kept clear of labor! If things were otherwise, people would die of
over-work. If, for instance, in the heat of midsummer harvesters were
to work day by day without intermission until all was gathered in, no
one could endure it."

At first Hedwig and the old man listened in surprise; but soon Hedwig
said, "Were you here already when the parson allowed us to turn the hay
on Sunday in haying-time, because it rained so long and the hay might
have been spoiled? I was out in the field too, but it seemed as if
every pitchforkful was as heavy again as it ought to be. I felt as if
somebody was holding my arm; and all next day, and all next week, the
world was like upside-down, and it was as if there hadn't been a Sunday
for a whole year."

The teac