“It was a terrible cold night when I went into that store, and found that the store-keeper had gone out to shut up the blinds. I was all alone, and there came over me the impulse to profit by the chance. Somethin’ seemed to whisper to me: ‘Here is your luck, make the most of it.’ Stranger, there was once a time when I would have no such temptation if I’d gone into an empty shop with an open drawer of uncounted dollars. “I saw the balls of butter in the cool corner of the store. I seized one. My conscience began to burn, and I threw water upon it by saying: ‘I’ll pay for it at some other time!’ Men cool conscience in that way. “The storekeeper came back with a queer look on his face. He did not appear nat’ral. He was too friendly. He made me sit down close to the stove. I could feel my heart beat under my coat. When a person is dealing unfair with you, you feel it in the air. I could feel in the air that something was wrong. “Well, the stove roared; it turned red. The place was close, and I was so nervous that I began to perspire. Then all at once—how the thing struck me like a death-shot!—the butter began to melt. I could feel it trickling down my hair, and dropping into my back. I thought of the old hymn about the holy oil and Aaron’s beard. I wished that the butter in my hat was like that. I hoped still that the storekeeper did not suspect me, but I felt that he did. The butter was shaping itself to my head. I dared not take off my hat. I wondered if the butter were soaking through it. I tried to move back, but there was no room. Then I felt the oil creeping down the back of my head. It would soon flow over my forehead. I leaped up; I said: ‘I must go—I ain’t well—let me out—I must go.’ But the storekeeper stood before me, and made me sit down again. Had I been right and strong within, I could not have done it. But a conscience-stung man will do anything,—he is a coward, and his heart is wax. [Illustration: COLUMBIAN FOUNTAIN, AND COURT OF HONOR.] “I sat down, with a feeling as though I was stifled. The butter kept on melting; it ran down over my face, and I wiped it off with my mittens and comforter. I never before dreamed how much oil there was in a pound of butter. Would it ever cease to flow? “Well, the storekeeper let me go at last, and told me of the fun that my punishment had given him. Stranger, I deserved the punishment; I acknowledge it was just. But I wished that he had taken some other way, and given me a chance. I was not wholly bad; I might not have been where I am now.