in the misery of his reflections. Perhaps it was the courage of desperation, the unrecognized hope that never dies till every vital spark be extinct, perhaps only the stanch and adventurous spirit of the old mountaineer,—woodsman and hunter as well as parson,—that nerved him to say, “It air some human critter, mebbe, bent on no good.” Then he presently observed, “Jube, I be goin’ ter watch that thar forge this night, an’ every night till I see who it air ez kems.” Jube recoiled. “Lord A’mighty, dad, _I_ wouldn’t fur nuthin’. ’Pears like ye oughtn’t ter resk it.” Then gathering reassurance with the reflection, “Mam won’t let ye, nohow.” “Thar ain’t no need for her to know it.” And after a pause, “I ain’t a-goin’ ter tell her,” added the parson. Mrs. Donnard, the best of wives, would willingly have sacrificed the whole congregation rather than let the parson risk an encounter with the enemy. Parson Donnard knew it was necessary to sedulously hold his tongue in order to be able to keep his own resolution, and thus her devotion, making his cause her own, cherishing enmities for his sake, tolerating friendships, sharing alike haps and mishaps—at last resulted in exclusion from his confidence! It was a lesson of doubtful expediency for Jube to observe the disingenuousness of the parson, as like unto other men as if he had felt no outpouring of the spirit, while he ate the good supper that she had cooked, and wore a placid and incidental countenance, and lighted his pipe after the meal was concluded, and established himself upon the porch in a definite and settled manner as if a fixture for the evening. And how, with his own practice to the contrary, should he preach to Jube, and young people generally, upon the beauty of confidence in the family relations, of the dangers of secrecy, of the necessity of setting good examples, and of amply and quickly returning the blessings that one enjoys of fine traits in others by double measure to them, pressed down and running over! The unconscious Mrs. Donnard, almost pathetic in her unconsciousness, scoured the skillet with ashes, and now and again lifted her voice and sang a fragmentary measure, broken by leaning down and rising up, and mounting upon chairs to place plates and sundry other table ware upon the high shelf, otherwise beyond her reach. Once the hiatus was occasioned by the parson, who put his head into the door to say he was “obligated” to go down to the Settlement to see how Eli Strobe was, when she placidly assented, and went on singing as before. It was Jube who, looking in at her cheerful industry, felt the pang of remorse,—he the good-for-naught; not the worthy parson, plodding off, feeling that she knew as much as was good for her.