“But,” said George, “the first horse was a very common-looking domestic animal, which they kept to eat--nothing like this one.” “Then you think God made the first horse, and after that the horses made themselves,” said Andrew. Alexa laughed; George said nothing; Andrew went on. “But,” he said, “if we have come up from the lower animals, through a million of kinds, perhaps--against which theory I have nothing to urge--then I am more than prepared to believe that the man who does not do the part of a man will have to go down again, through all the stages of his being, to a position beyond the lowest forms of the powers he has misused, and there begin to rise once more, haunted perhaps with dim hints of the world of humanity left so far above him.” “Bah! What's the use of bothering! Rubbish!” cried George, with rude jollity. “You know as well as I do, Mr. Ingram, it's all bosh! Things will go on as they're doing, and as they have been doing, till now from all eternity--so far as we know, and that's enough for us.” “They will not go on so for long in our sight, Mr. Crawford. The worms will have a word to say with us.” Alexa turned away. “You've not given up preaching and taken to the practical yet, Mr. Ingram, I see,” said George. Andrew laughed. “I flatter myself I have not ceased to be practical, Mr. Crawford. You are busy with what you see, and I am busy as well with what I don't see; but all the time I believe my farm is in as good a state as your books.” George gave a start, and stole a look at the young farmer, but was satisfied he “meant nothing.” The self-seeker will walk into the very abyss protesting himself a practical man, and counting him unpractical who will not with him “jump the life to come.” Himself, he neither measures the width nor questions his muscle. CHAPTER XXI. WHAT IS IT WORTH? Andrew, with all his hard work, harder since Sandy went, continued able to write, for he neither sought company nor drank strong drink, and was the sport of no passion. From threatened inroad he appealed to Him who created to lift His child above the torrent, and make impulse the slave of conscience and manhood. There were no demons riding the whirlwinds of his soul. It is not wonderful then that he should be able to write a book, or that the book should be of genuine and original worth. It had the fortune to be “favorably” reviewed, scarce one of those who reviewed it understanding it, while all of them seemed to themselves to understand it perfectly. I mention the thing because, had the book not been thus reviewed, Alexa would not have bought a copy, or been able to admire it.