"Is't the fever?" he asked, simply.

No need to deceive the good old man, with his guileless, trustful face,-so childlike through all its wrinkles! "I am afraid it is," I answered, gravely.

it's

“I kinder thought so. You see that holler in Hart's rock, thar, 's run dry this two days. And though I ain't superstitious, I know the Lord made the rock, and takes count o' the water, and He might mean it marcifully as a hint to me that my spring o' life's arunnin' dry, too, without goin' out o' His way, partic❜larly, to do it. I've allers found His ways and works full o' signs for my good or my comfort, when I looked arter 'em. This woodpile, now, pooty considerable of a world itself. It's got crooked sticks and straight uns, little uns and big uns, green uns and dry uns, sound uns and holler uns, hard uns and soft uns. And they all have to take their turn in the fire of affliction. But see how different they act thar! Some on 'em begin to give out light and heat right off; it does you good to see 'em burn, they take it so cheerful like, as if they meant to find out the good in it; but there's others that does nothin' but fizzle an' sizzle, an' sug an' smoke, an' try not to stay put, you may poke 'em an' stir 'em an' turn 'em over, jest as much as you like, but you can't coax a good blaze an' a revivin' warmth out on 'em, an' do yer best! Howsomever, they all go to ashes, at the last."

"Is not that rather a sad conclusion?" I asked.

"Not a mite of it. We don't throw away our ashes, you know; they're good for manure, or lye, or suthin'. And the Lord don't throw away His'n, no more, I guess. They're safe enough in His hands." Then he took up the axe, and drew his finger lightly along its edge. "I'm glad I give it a good grindin' up yisterday," said he. "I allers like to leave my tools in good order. It's tryin' to human natur to have to stop and sharpen up tools that somebody else has dulled, before you can go to work yourself. Many

a good mind for work's been sp'iled that way. Wall, p'raps I'd better be agittin' into the house, while I can.”

At the gate, he paused and looked round on the familiar landscape, rich with its autumnal glory.

"It's a pooty world,” said he, "and a good world, for the Lord made it. And, seems to me, it never looked pootier than it does now. But I guess 'taint the best He can turn out. And His will be done!"

And thus Uncle True quitted the scene of his active labors.

The fever wrought very gently with him. He was not tortured with thirst nor pain; much of the time he slept quietly, or lay in a kind of misty stupor that had the appearance of sleep. Six days of care and watching, on our part; six days of patient waiting upon the Lord, on his; and the watching and the waiting were both over.

The morning before he died, he said to me, while his eyes rested lovingly on his old arm-chair, the faithful companion of so many years, now standing empty by his bed,"You wouldn't think it, would ye, now, Miss Frost? but that old chair thar's been the greatest blessin' the Lord ever give me. I had suthin' of a wild turn in my young days, and if He hadn't fust thrown me out of a wagon, and then sot me down in that chair for the rest o' my life, thar's no tellin' how swift to do evil my feet might have got to be! That chair's been the Hand o' Providence restrainin' me, and the Everlastin' Arms round me, all my days, though I never see it quite so clear afore. If you've got any cross to bear-and sometimes I've kinder suspected you had, though you've allers done your best to show a bright face and not shadder other folks with your troubles; but if you've got any, take my word for't, the time'll come when you'll thank the Lord more for that cross than for all the pleasant things that ever He poured into your bosom."

Shortly after, he turned his face to the wall. "I feel as

if I could sleep a little," said he. "Sleep's about as good a thing as the Lord gives us, I reckon; it comes reel refreshin' at the end of a hard day's work, or onto a bed of sickness. Some think it's a type o' death. I shouldn't wonder if 'twas, one ain't to be dreaded no more'n tother, I reckon, by them that love the Lord."

None of us could tell when the type became the reality. We only knew that the waking was beyond our sight, past the shadow wherein man walketh and disquieteth himself in vain, in the sunshine of the eternal shore.

For the sake of convenience, on the morning of the funeral, Uncle True's chair was restored to its wonted, out-ofthe-way corner of the kitchen fireplace, and there it stands still. Through the day it tells its quiet story of a humble life well lived, a humble cross cheerfully borne, a humble spirit divinely nurtured into rare beauty of holiness and dignity of faith; and at evening time, seen through the dancing firelight, by eyes dim with a slow-gathering moisture (that seldom falls in a tear), it becomes a dazzling, iridescent throne, fit. to stand by the Crystal River, under the boughs of the Tree of Life. Over it Bona, Mala, and I, have many subdued talks. Of the latest of these, being yet fresh in my memory, I give a brief report.

I had been thinking not only of Uncle True's sweet, mellow, genial character, and of the wisdom unto salvation whereof he had gathered such rich store; but of the seemingly infertile soil of infirmity and bachelorhood out of which these had bloomed. So far as I could learn, Uncle True had never known love-human love, par excellence, that is neither in its joy, nor in its sorrow. Yet who,

looking at the first and highest end of our earthly existence, namely, the developing and training of the germ of immortal life within us until it is fit for transplantation into the King's Garden,-which end being gained, all other losses may count for nothing, and which being lost, all other successes are worse than failures;—who, looking at

these things, would dare to call Uncle True's life incomplete? And so I began the talk by asking myself:

"Have the poets all been wrong, then, in singing human love as the sweetest, the richest, and the most ennobling thing in human life?"

MALA. Assuredly not. Look at the great and glorious deeds whereof it has been the inspiration!-at the courage, the patience, the fortitude, the self-sacrifice, the constancy, the heroism which it has brought forth! What grand natures it has helped to enlarge and enrich! what lovely ones to beautify and refine!

BONA. A fair picture, and not without a certain truth. But it has black shadows,-be mine the painful task to point them out! Look at the sinful and shameful acts of which Love is often the motive,-the deceit, treachery, vice, degradation, misery, remorse, and despair, of which it is the too prolific parent. What gifted minds it has helped to drag down to the dust! what gentle hearts it has soured, withered, or hardened! No, no! Human Love, though it may sweeten human life more than anything else, if its course do but run tolerably smooth, does not necessarily ennoble, nor unqualifiedly enrich, it. If it is entire, absorbing, satisfying, it tends to narrowness of aims and sympathies, and so to poverty of life and experience; if it is not, it provokes doubt, jealousy, anger, and discontent, on the one hand, and on the other, leaves the way open for trifling, falsehood, duplicity, and a gradual searing of heart and conscience, likely to end in actual crime. Crossed or disappointed, its only natural fruit is sorrow. In its unhallowed, illicit form, no need to say how surely it tends to infamy and ruin!

MALA. Do you pretend to deny that Love has arrested many a youth's depraved and downward course, and lifted up to purer air?

it

BONA. Not at all; no more than you will deny that it has hindered, or turned aside and befouled, many another

that was struggling up toward righteousness. But let us not forget that, in both these cases, Love was less a controlling power than a mighty lever, either in the hands of the Spirit of Evil or the Spirit of Good. Satan tries all instruments to work out his evil purposes; God blesses many means to His wise ends. Often He gives us Divine help through human hands. Graciously He orders or permits that an earthly love shall illume or direct the first step or two in the heavenward path, while the heart is still far from Him and the ear deaf to His call; but if the pilgrim do not soon learn to look to a purer and more steadfast light, and to depend upon a higher and safer guidance, he will never get far on the heavenly road. Left to the natural impulses of the natural heart, Love becomes but a blind leader of the blind, and it is by God's mercy alone that both do not fall into the ditch.

I. The drift of all which appears to be that Love par takes of the nature of the soil from whence it springs:from a pure heart, a pure sentiment; from a vicious heart, a vile one.

BONA. And a pure heart is—from whence?

I. From the grace of God, duly sought in prayer, and faithfully applied in thought and act.

BONA. It follows, then, you see, that God's grace is the true inspiration, the original cause, of whatever, is really noble, pure, lovely, and of good report, in human love!

MALA (insidiously). Do you not see that she wholly ignores all the good, great, generous, beneficent deeds done in the name and service of Love by men who never thought, nor cared, to seek God's grace?

BONA. Take care that your eyes are not dazzled by worldly glory, neither suffer yourself to confound worldly honor with the Divine blessing. No deed can rightly be called good, except it spring from an earnest desire to do God's will and a loving regard for the honor of His name, no matter how wisely and well He may overrule