Mr. Cabot straightened up in his chair and rubbed his chin. His credulity had reached its limit, yet, if he could judge by the evidence already presented, the young man was adhering strictly to the truth. There followed a silence during which Betty, who in nibbling about had approached within a few feet of them, held out her head, and took the clover from Amos. Mr. Cabot brought a pencil and piece of paper from his pockets. “I would like to try one more experiment, with your permission. Will you write on that paper what I am to do at--well, say ten o’clock to-night?” Amos took the paper and closed his eyes, but in a moment looked up and said, “You are in the dark and I can see nothing.” “Then you have no knowledge of what goes on in the dark?” “No, sir; only of things that I can see. If there is any light at all I can see as if I were there in person, but no better. To-night at ten o’clock you are in your own chamber, and it is absolutely black.” “Then change the hour to six o’clock.” As Mr. Cabot, a moment later, turned a sidelong glance toward his friend, sitting with closed eyes before him, he thought the little mark upon his forehead had never been so distinct. He regarded it with a mild surprise as it seemed almost aglow; but the sky was becoming rosy in the west, and there might be a reflection from the setting sun. Amos wrote something on a slip of paper, folded it up and returned it to Mr. Cabot, who carefully tucked it away in a pocket saying, “I shall not read it until six-thirty. I will tell you to-morrow if you are correct.” “Oh, that is correct, sir! You need have no anxiety on that point.” As he spoke there passed slowly along the road a cart containing two men, and behind the cart, securely fastened, walked a heavy, vicious-looking bull. “That is an ugly brute,” he said. “So I was just thinking. Does he belong in the town?” “Yes; it is Barnard’s bull. Yesterday he got loose and so mutilated a horse that it had to be shot; and within an hour he tried his best to kill old Barnard himself, which was a good undertaking and showed public spirit. He is sure to have a victim sooner or later, and it certainly ought to be old Barnard if anybody.” “Who is Barnard?” “He is the oyster-eyed, malignant old liar and skinflint who lives in that red house about a mile below here.” “You seem to like him.” “I hate him.” “What has he done to you?” “Nothing; but he bullies his wife, starves his cattle, and cheats his neighbors. Even as a small boy I knew enough to dislike him, and whenever he went by the house I used to stone him.” “What a pleasant little neighbor you must have been!” Amos tried to smile, but his anger was evidently too serious a matter to be treated with disrespect. Mr. Cabot, after regarding for a moment the wrathful eyes that still followed the bull, continued: “You are more than half barbarian, my war-like farmer. Must you do physical damage to everyone you dislike?”