--_Tunison's Industrial Hymns._ Randall celebrated his release by retiring to Lucindy's house, where he shut himself in and remained for more than an hour. He filled the little room with thanksgiving in the shape of song and prayer, all of which could be heard for a considerable distance. A great burden had been lifted from his simple mind, and he celebrated the fact in a simple and natural way. Lucindy understood his feelings, for she shared them. While Randall was praying and singing in her house, she was in the kitchen with Adelaide. Even while the tears of gratitude and thankfulness were running down her cheeks, and threatening to fall in the things she was cooking (as the child saw), she made light of the whole matter. "I dunner what he mean by gwine 'way off dat-a-way, an' holdin' a pray'r-meetin' by hisself. He'll have de whole town a-stan'in' 'roun' in de yard ef he keep on doin' like dat." "Well, Mammy Lucindy, you are crying yourself." "My eyes weak, honey, an' dey feels like I done stuck a splinter in bofe un um. You des wait. When you git ol' ez what I is, I lay yo' eyes will run water, too." The idea of Adelaide growing old! Nobody would have thought of such a thing but Lucindy, and the thought only came to her as a means of hiding her own feelings. But it is a fact that the child was about to grow older. For shortly after Randall's trouble, all of us took the road for Eighteen-Hundred-and-Eighty-Five. We thought it was a long road, too, and yet, somehow, it was neither long nor rough. But it was a very peculiar thoroughfare. For though all of us tried to walk side by side, it seemed that some of us were toiling up-hill, while others were walking down-hill. It was so peculiar that on several occasions, I was on the point of asking Adelaide what she thought of a road that could be up-hill and down-hill in the same place, and at the same time; but the child had so many quaint and beautiful thoughts of her own that I hesitated to disturb her mind. Moreover, she was growing so fast, and getting along so well, that I had no real desire to put new ideas in her head. Mr. Sanders declared that she was running up like a weed. This attracted the attention of old Jonas, who fixed his small glittering eyes on the old humourist. "Like a weed, Sanders?" Mr. Whipple inquired. "Well," replied Mr. Sanders, "call the weed a sunflower, ef it suits you; but I dunner what's the matter with a weed--the Lord made it." Old Jonas, looking off into space, nodded his head, with "Yes, I reckon maybe He did."