Lenny considered. “If he was a friend, sir, he would not like me to give him all!” “Upon my word, Master Leonard, you speak so well, that I must e’en tell the truth. I brought you an apple, as a prize for good conduct in school. But I met by the way a poor donkey, and some one beat him for eating a thistle; so I thought I would make it up by giving him the apple. Ought I only to have given him the half?” Lenny’s innocent face became all smile; his interest was aroused. “And did the donkey like the apple?” “Very much,” said the Parson, fumbling in his pocket, but thinking of Leonard Fairfield’s years and understanding; and moreover, observing, in the pride of his heart, that there were many spectators to his deed, he thought the meditated twopence not sufficient, and he generously produced a silver sixpence. “There, my man, that will pay for the half apple which you would have kept for yourself.” The Parson again patted the curly locks, and, after a hearty word or two with the other haymakers, and a friendly “Good-day” to Mrs. Fairfield, struck into a path that led toward his own glebe. He had just crossed the stile, when he heard hasty but timorous feet behind him. He turned, and saw his friend Lenny. LENNY, half crying, and holding out the sixpence.—“Indeed, sir, I would rather not. I would have given all to the Neddy.” PARSON.—“Why, then, my man, you have a still greater right to the sixpence.” LENNY.—“No, sir; ’cause you only gave it to make up for the half apple. And if I had given the whole, as I ought to have done, why, I should have had no right to the sixpence. Please, sir, don’t be offended; do take it back, will you?” The Parson hesitated. And the boy thrust the sixpence into his hand, as the ass had poked his nose there before in quest of the apple. “I see,” said Parson Dale, soliloquizing, “that if one don’t give Justice the first place at the table, all the other Virtues eat up her share.” Indeed, the case was perplexing. Charity, like a forward impudent baggage as she is, always thrusting herself in the way, and taking other people’s apples to make her own little pie, had defrauded Lenny of his due; and now Susceptibility, who looks like a shy, blush-faced, awkward Virtue in her teens—but who, nevertheless, is always engaged in picking the pockets of her sisters, tried to filch from him his lawful recompense. The case was perplexing; for the Parson held Susceptibility in great honor, despite her hypocritical tricks, and did not like to give her a slap in the face, which might frighten her away forever. So Mr. Dale stood irresolute, glancing from the sixpence to Lenny, and from Lenny to the sixpence. “_Buon giorno_—good-day to you,” said a voice behind, in an accent slightly but unmistakably foreign, and a strange-looking figure presented itself at the stile.