raising the long, drooping head, very much as one might raise the chin of a child to look into its face, he said "Barney, Barney, my boy, where's your master?" Barney couldn't say, but he whinnied, and softly rubbed his poor, heated, dusty head against the substantial shoulder of the host. "Cart harness!" said Job, as he walked round the horse. "Ah! and his side has been bleeding a little. What's this, my lad, what's this?" And Job tenderly rubbed the dust from the injured spot. "Have they been hitting you with a sharp stick, old Bar, or what is it?" Mutely, Barney turned, and tried to look at the spot where Tim's thumb-nail had been. But, you know, he could not enter into a verbal explanation of the thing. "Well!" suddenly exclaimed the host of the Globe. "You'll catch your death of cold if you stand here gossiping with me. Come, let's step Plain enough, you've had a mad gallop, and, if we don't mind, you'll be ill after it. But what have you done with your master, lad? and what about these bits of cart harness ?" on. Like a dog followed the great, dusty horse. Indeed, he was making his way to the Globe stables when the friendly host met him. Barney's mother was Job Martin's own mare; Barney had first seen the light in one of the Globe's wellventilated stables. Besides, John Moss always "put up "there on market days; so under the shelter of that roof the horse was very much at home. "Bran mash, quick, Jem!" cried the landlord, as he and his charge entered the stable yard. "Here, I'll rub him down myself! and give me a couple of rugs! My good fellow, don't stop to stare, there isn't time! Mr. Moss's horse ?-yes, of course it is! "Where be Muster Moss, zur ?" "Just what I'm wondering. Now, come, the bran mash!" The master of the Globe did not wonder long, for soon after, Robert Moss, well-mounted, made his appearance. Without difficulty he had traced his father's horse to the well-known halting-place. And when he saw in whose hands Barney was, he was more than content to leave him until he had recovered himself after his long run. The little injury in the horse's side was a puzzle, even to Rob. "However," said he, "it will heal while he is resting here. And in the course of a day or two my brother will come over and see whether he can take him home.” "All right, sir," said the plain-spoken host. "By the way, Mr. Moss, is your father's ostler trustworthy? I have an impression that Barney has been subjected to bad treatment." "Ay, there's the rub," returned Robert. "So far as we can learn, this all arises from the disobedience of a lad who took upon himself to harness him to a cart for farm purposes. But about that little cut in the side, I must say we are 'at "Know'st thou the value of a soul immortal? Ten thousand add; and twice ten thousand more; E do not propose to follow Mr. Frost through his essay, but will just say it was satisfactory to Mrs. Nobbs, Miss Small, and himself; and if the subject is not too delicate to be touched upon, we may add that Mrs. Nobbs that very evening promised to become Mrs. Frost. Again, one has to pull one's-self up sharply, lest the fangs of ridicule should dart out upon this But we know that such women as Mrs, Moss, sen., would in such a case pity, perhaps, more than they blamed. Figuratively speaking, Mrs. woman. Moss would take Mrs. Nobbs by one hand and Miss Small by the other, and try to lead them out of the marsh land on which they had been living, and with earnest painstaking she would seek to bring them up to higher and firmer ground-the ground of common sense; and better, to an appreciation of the solemn responsibilities of wifehood, and of life generally. At any rate, we, each one of us-not, by any means, excluding the one who pens this-are, more or less, in one form or another, wayward, wilful, alas! perhaps rebellious children of a profoundly pitying and forgiving Father. Mrs. Nobbs' weakness, Miss Small's littleness, may be faults with which we have never had to contend, personally. But the God of our life-He who will eventually make us (6 more than conquerors" if we lean upon the merits of His Son, following with reverence and deep love in His sacred footsteps-He knows the special infirmities of each one. But suppose He were to use the lash! What then ? The very thought seems to burn one's brain as it passes through, though it just flashes over our being and is gone! From past experience, from the recollection of all the way which our God has led us hitherto, we know-calmly and with deep thankfulness know--that He is gracious and merci |