He bent a little lower to his work. The wall was that thirteen-foot strip, to the left of the porch, upon which he had spent the first morning of all in getting rid of the unsound upper courses. It was still his own height in most places; so the children could not watch him at his work; but the sound of them was enough. Poor little children! To grow up with such an example and such knowledge as would be theirs! His heart had seldom smitten him so hard. "_Then said He unto the disciples, It is impossible but that offences will come: but woe unto him through whom they come!_ "_It were better for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck, and he cast into the sea, than that he should offend one of these little ones._" The text came unbidden; it cut the deeper for that. Woe unto him, indeed! Of all men, woe unto him! Hammer and chisel slipped from his hands; he hid his face. His thumbs went to his ears, but were drawn back. The children's voices were more than he could bear, so he bore them for his sin until another aspect of the case was driven home to his intelligence. Next moment he appeared in the porch, and the children were vanishing from the wall. "Don't run away," he called. "Come back, you bigger ones!" It was his old voice, come unbidden like the text; he might have been using it all these weeks. The children had never disobeyed that quiet but imperious summons. They did not begin to-day. "Why aren't you all at school?" There was silence, broken eventually by some bold but still respectful spirit. "Please, sir, it's a holiday." "Not Saturday, is it?" He was beginning to lose count of the week-days; once already the Sabbath school-bell had nipped a day's work in the bud. "No, sir, it's an extra holiday." "Then spend it better. Get away into the fields, or down the river. I won't have you hanging about here. There's nothing for you to see--nothing that will do you any good. Run away all, and forget who has spoken to you. But don't let me have to speak again!" There was no need for another word. And the workman went back to his wall; but his hands had lost their cunning; his heart was as heavy as the stones themselves. Why had he never been harassed in this way before? He had not to think very long. He was without that friend of friendless man, his dog. The good Glen, his second shadow in these days, had chosen this one to desert him; and Carlton was glad, for nothing else would have made him appreciate the dog at his true worth. Now he thought of it, how often the faithful brute had gone barking to wall or gate, and come back wagging his tail! Preoccupied with his work, he had taken no thinking heed at the time. But now he remembered and understood.