ears should not hear the clamour of its doubts nor be forced to listen to the pro and con wherewith we are eternally badgered and perplexed. The road was winding like a ribbon in and out of the mountains. On either side there were hedges and bushes,—little, stiff trees which held their foliage in their hands and dared the winds snatch a leaf from that grip. The hills were swelling and sinking, folding and soaring on every view. Now the silence was startled by the falling tinkle of a stream. Far away a cow lowed, a long, deep monotone, or a goat’s call trembled from nowhere to nowhere. But mostly there was a silence which buzzed with a multitude of small winged life. Going up the hills the Philosopher bent forward to the gradient, stamping vigorously as he trod, almost snorting like a bull in the pride of successful energy. Coming down the slope he braced back and let his legs loose to do as they pleased. Didn’t they know their business—Good luck to them, and away! As he walked along he saw an old woman hobbling in front of him. She was leaning on a stick and her hand was red and swollen with rheumatism. She hobbled by reason of the fact that there were stones in her shapeless boots. She was draped in the sorriest miscellaneous rags that could be imagined, and these were knotted together so intricately that her clothing, having once been attached to her body, could never again be detached from it. As she walked she was mumbling and grumbling to herself, so that her mouth moved round and round in an india-rubber fashion. The Philosopher soon caught up on her. “Good morrow, ma’am,” said he. But she did not hear him: she seemed to be listening to the pain which the stones in her boots gave her. “Good morrow, ma’am,” said the Philosopher again. This time she heard him and replied, turning her old, bleared eyes slowly in his direction— “Good morrow to yourself, sir,” said she, and the Philosopher thought her old face was a very kindly one. “What is it that is wrong with you, ma’am?” said he. “It’s my boots, sir,” she replied. “Full of stones they are, the way I can hardly walk at all, God help me!” “Why don’t you shake them out?” “Ah, sure, I couldn’t be bothered, sir, for there are so many holes in the boots that more would get in before I could take two steps, and an old woman can’t be always fidgeting, God help her!” There was a little house on one side of the road, and when the old woman saw this place she brightened up a little. “Do you know who lives in that house?” said the Philosopher. “I do not,” she replied, “but it’s a real nice house with clean windows and a shiny knocker on the door, and smoke in the chimney—I wonder would herself give me a cup of tea now if I asked her—A poor old woman walking the roads on a stick! and maybe a bit of meat, or an egg perhaps....” “You could ask,” suggested the Philosopher gently.