up in the peak), but it sent down only one long beam of sunlight, which
glimmered across the dust and fell upon Dorothy's white neck.

The wheel was humming a quick measure and Dorothy trod lightly back and
forth, the wheel-pin in one hand, the other holding the tense, lengthening
thread, which the spindle devoured again.

"Dorothy, thee looks warm: can't thee sit down a moment, while I talk to
thee?"

"Is it anything important, mother? I want to get my twenty knots before
dinner." She paused as she joined a long tress of wool at the spindle. "Is
it anything about father?"

"Yes, it's about father, and all of us."

"I know," said Dorothy, with a sigh. "He's going away again!"

"Yes, dear. He feels that he is called. It is a time of trouble and
contention everywhere: 'the harvest,' truly, 'is plenteous, but the
laborers are few.'"

"There are not so many 'laborers' here, mother, though to be sure, the
harvest"--

"Dorothy, my daughter, don't let a spirit of levity creep into thy speech.
Thy father has striven and wrestled with his urgings. I've seen it working
on him all winter. He feels, now, it is the Lord's will."

"I don't see how he can be so sure," said Dorothy, swaying gloomily to and