it rested on his shoulder; and now she leaned to him still closer. Come in. We'll try what can be done for you." There was a change in the man's voice that made me wonder. I entered a large room in which blazed a brisk fire. Before the fire sat two stout lads, who turned upon me their heavy eyes, with no very welcome greeting. A middle-aged woman was standing at a table, and two children were amusing themselves with a kitten on the floor. "A stranger, mother," said the man who had given me so rude a greeting at the door; and he wants us to let him stay all night." The woman looked at me doubtingly for a few moments, and then replied coldly, "We don't keep a public house." "I am aware of that, ma'am," said I, "but night has overtaken me, and it's a long way yet to "Too far for a tired man to go on foot," said the master of the house, kindly; "so it's no use talking about it, mother; we must give him a bed." So unobtrusively that I scarcely noticed the movement, the girl had drawn to the woman's side. What she said to her I did not hear, for the brief words were uttered in a low voice; but I noticed, as she spoke, one small, fair hand rested on the woman's hand. Was there magic in that gentle touch? The woman's repulsive aspect changed into one of kindly welcome, and she said “Yes, it's a long way to G—. I guess we can find a place for him.” Many times more during that evening did I observe the magic power of that hand and voice; the one gentle and yet potent as the other. On the next morning, breakfast being over, I was preparing to take my departure, when my host informed me that if I would wait for half an hour he would give me a ride in his wagon to G, as business required him to go there. In due time the farmer's wagon was driven into the road before the house, and I was invited to get in. The horse was a rough-looking Canadian pony, with a certain air of stubborn endurance. As the farmer took his seat by my side, the family came to the door to see us off. "Dick!" said the farmer in a peremptory voice, giving the rein a quick jerk as he spoke. But Dick moved not a step. 'Dick! you vagabond, get up;" and the farmer's whip cracked sharply by the pony's ear. 66 This second appeal, however, availed nothing. Dick stood firmly disobedient. Next, the whip was brought down upon him, with an impatient hand; but the pony only reared up a little. Fast and sharp the strokes were next dealt, to the number of half-a-dozen. The man might as well have beaten his wagon, for all that his end was gained. A stout lad now came out into the road, and catching Dick by the bridle, jerked him forward, using at the same time the customary language on such occasions. But Dick met this new enemy with increased stubbornness, planting his forefeet more firmly, and at a sharper angle with the ground. The impatient boy now struck the pony on the side of his head with his clenched hand, and jerked cruelly at his bridle. It availed nothing, however; Dick was not to be wrought upon by any such arguments. "Don't do so, John!" I turned my head as the maiden's sweet voice reached my ear. She was passing through the gate into the road, and in the next moment, had taken hold of the lad, and drawn him away from the animal. No strength was exerted in this; she took hold of his arm, and he obeyed her wish as readily as if he had no thought beyond her gratification. And now that soft hand was laid gently on the pony's neck, and a single low word was spoken. How instantly were the tense muscles relaxed; how quickly the stubborn air vanished. "Poor Dick!" said the maiden, as she stroked his neck lightly, or softly patted it with a child-like hand. "Now, go along, you provoking fellow!" she added in a halfchiding yet affectionate voice, as she drew up the bridle. The pony turned toward her, and rubbed his head against her arm for an instant or two. Then, pricking up his ears, he started off at a light, cheerful trot, and went on his way as if no silly crotchet had ever entered his stubborn brain. "What a wonderful power that hand possesses," said I, speaking to my companion, as we rode away. He looked at me for a moment, as if my words had occasioned surprise. Then a light came into his countenance, and he said briefly, “She's good! Everything and everybody loves her!" Was that, indeed, the secret of her power? Was the quality of her soul perceived in the impression of her hand, even by the brute beasts? The father's explanation was, doubtless, the true one. Yet, have I ever since wonderedand do still wonder-at the potency which lay in that maiden's magic touch. I have seen something of the same power showing itself in the loving and the good, but never to the extent instanced in her, whom-for want of a better name-I must still call "Gentle Hand." DEFINITIONS.-I. Un'a wâres', unexpectedly. 2. Viçin'i ty, neighborhood. 3. Ap'pa ri'tion, ghost. 4. Un'ob tru'sive ly, modestly; quietly. 5. Re pŭl'sive, cold; unpleasant. 6. As'pect, look; air. 7. Pō'tent, powerful. 8. Pěr'emp to ry, sharply; positive. 9. Văg’a bond', worthless fellow. 10. A vailed', accomplished. II. Grăt'i fi ca'tion, pleasure. 12. Tense, rigid. 13. Re lăxed', loosened; made less rigid. 14. Crotch'et, whim. 15. Oc că'sioned, caused. 16. In'stanced, given an example or sample. LESSON XIX. PART I. Before the Rain. Thomas Bailey Aldrich. THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH, the author of the following little poems, is another American poet of distinction. He is also a charming writer in prose. He was born in the old seaside town of Portsmouth, New Hampshire, in 1837, but moved to New York city at the age of seventeen, and began his working life as a bookkeeper. But such a career was distasteful to him, and he abandoned it for journalism and other literary labors. During this period he entered into association with the poets Stedman, Stoddard, and Bayard Taylor, and was more or less in touch with the group that included Walt. Whitman, Fitz James O'Brien, and William Winter. Aldrich is a brilliant wit, both in conversation and in his writings. His notes of travel are graphic and amusing. His poems are pieces of dainty literary workmanship. The most popular of his books is his "Story of a Bad Boy." Since 1866, he has lived in Boston. We knew it would rain, for all the morn Of marshes and swamps and dismal fens— To sprinkle them over the land in showers. We knew it would rain, for the poplars showed DEFINITIONS.-1. Fens, moors; lowlands. 2. Am'ber, yellow. 3. Trèm'u lous, shaking. LESSON XIX-PART II. After the Rain. The rain has ceased, and in my room The ancient cross is bathed in blood. |