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CHAPTER XVI.
JIMS at the Manse.

The pastor of the old and well-known town of Crampton sat dozing in his chair in the south front room of the parsonage. The hour was about eight in the evening; and as usual, from eight to nine, when he was wont to wake up and go to bed, sleepy -- provided there were no appointments or calls abroad -- he resigned himself to a leaning, easy snooze, with his feet on an elevated stool, his hands folded on his lap, his head and shoulders cast back upon the cushioned rocker, while his industrious, quiet wife knitted and sewed and trimmed the light. There was a large fire in the open Franklin stove, and occasionally a "snapping" stick would throw off a spark, mon a coal that broke the thread of the industrious sewer, and partially the dream of the sleeper, and which was instantly quenched by the shoe of the former, or pointed at with the finger of the latter, as one half-opened eye followed in its wake, and noted the place of its rest.

Thus the evening was weaving itself up. It was now eight -- anon, eight and a quarter -- presently it was eight and a half -- thirty-five, and six, and seven. The wind was howling; the snow began to slant on the windows, and to hum its flurry-tune. And yet it was comfortable in the pastor's domestic south room, and there was quiet also, for it happened that there were no children in this family; and Ann was busy in the kitchen over the ironing; Growler lay quietly in his corner, and Tabby in hers. But outside the parsonage, and all along the road, through the woods, beside the creek, over the hill and down in the hollows, it was dark, stormy and drear.

I said it was "eight and thirty-five, six, and seven." It was just about that, and would soon be thirty-eight, nine, and then forty, when the pastor's wife was startled, and the pastor was startled, by the opening and slamming of the yard gate. Now this gate had rusty hinges and an iron latch and key; and when opened and shut, it always made a great noise, that invariably awoke the dozing divine, and arrested the attention of his industrious and economizing lady. On the present occasion, they both aroused at the same instant, and they both exclaimed as usual, only with rather more than their ordinary interest, for it implied something serious; it might be sickness, or a death, or a dying message, or a traveler benighted, or a contemplating bridegroom, or a seasonable present from a thoughtful parishioner, or a troubled conscience that would not rest. Something of an earnest and positive character hung on the hinges of the gate as eight, thirty and seven, and eight, walked up the dial-ladder that stormy December night.

So at least thought he -- and with hand upraised, and breath held up to hear more, she, and both said, "There it is! THE GATE!"

But before any more words were uttered, or time for any took place, there was a loud knock at the back-door opening into the hall. The servant-girl arrested her smoothing-iron, held it up a moment, listening; then down it went on the red hot stove, and she seized a light. The pastor seized a light, his wife seized another; and as they all met and stood in the hall the door suddenly opened. It was not locked; nor was the outsider aware that any thing, even fashion or law, required him to wait in a storm after giving the usual sign of being there: so in he came. He was covered with snow; his long hair fell over his shoulders, and filled up his face in part, through which, however, glowed two ruddy cheeks and flashing eyes. His features were coarse. His garments, as he shook off the snow, appeared to have nearly got through with service. His shoes were nearly twice too large for him, filled with snow, and his hat was a broken-in slouching felt.

The comer was a tall, overgrown boy, twelve or thirteen years of age perhaps, and as tall and thin as one may be at fifteen. Grown out of erect shape, his shoulders, back, chest, and limbs betrayed, in the general outline, a neglected fellow-creature -- with how much of intellect by his Creator gifted, unknown. He was a shabby, sorry fellow, and yet awoke in you instinctive interest -- perhaps compassion -- perhaps suggestion. "Are you suffering?" "Whence came, who, and what are you?"

The intruder, opening the door on such a flood of light, stopped and gazed a moment in apparent surprise. He drew himself up, and looked at the company present to receive him with such an unusual display of lights, with a wild inquiring gaze, which every one of the trio returned in his and her usual and appropriate form of such expression. But the out-door hero came to himself first. He took off his hat, shook off the snow, and threw back his wetted locks and snow-covered coat.

"May be," said he, "you don't know it's mighty hard snowing, d'ye?"

"Well, my lad," said the parson, "we havn't been out, but we have heard it on the windows."

"Glory! 's that all? I've been tracking in't two miles, and it's dumb'd plaguy soft and cold. But what's that to me? I'm out in all sorts of weather -- wet, cold, and dry -- and sleep where I can. It's a tough sort of life I leads any way; and so you'd think yourselves, providen you'd try it."