Part 7 (2/2)

”Far better, far better,” continued the physician, looking only at the child, and inwardly saying, ”Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings come words of wisdom.”

”I met her on the hill,--the one you call Truth,” he said, in answer to the searching look of Mrs. Highbred, who by manner and inquiry plainly manifested her desire to have an end of the unusual state of things.

”I will go for her. She will return with me,” continued the doctor, ”and soon we will find some spot to which we can remove Error.”

A look of relief came over the face of the lady as he departed.

Truth heard not the sound of the horses, nor the rumbling of wheels as they approached, so intent were her thoughts on separation from her sister and her own strange mission to earth; and she scarce sensed whither she was going, when the kind man courteously lifted her into his carriage. But when she stood by the fevered, unconscious form of Error, a few moments later, all her clearness of thought was at her command.

”Carry her to the cottage on the hill-side,” she said, as she bound a cool bandage on her sister's brow.

They bore her there, and, as though in mercy, a dark cloud shut off the sun's rays, and their fierce glare was obscured during transit from the home of splendor to the humble cottage.

There for many weeks Truth nursed her sister, while the kind hostess and kind neighbors aided by words and deeds through the long night watches.

Error arose from her illness somewhat wiser, and firmly fixed in her determination to follow Truth and share her fate to their journey's end.

Thus, reader, shall we ever find them together while we dwell on earth, and perchance in the regions above. Let us trust that they are wisely related; and, while we love, reverence, and admire the purity of Truth, let us seek also courteously to endure Error as an opposing force, which, though it may seem for a time to work our discomfort and hinder us in our progress, yet gives us strength, as the rower on the stream is made stronger by the counter currents and eddies with which he has to contend.

X.

THE TREE.

A large shade-tree grew near a house, and under its branches the children played every summer day. It seemed to take great delight in their voices, and shook its green boughs over their heads, as though it would join in their sports and laughter. But, alas! one day it got a foolish idea into its head--it grew discontented, and felt that its sphere of usefulness was too limited.

At that moment dark clouds gathered, a fearful tempest arose, and a strong current of wind, soon set the giant tree swinging with such violence that it was torn from the earth and lay like a broken column on the ground.

”Now I shall be something: I've got my roots out of the old earth.

Bah! such a heap of old black loam, to be sure, as I have been in! I'll soon shake it off, however, and then the world will see that _I_ can soar as well as other things.”

There was a terrible quaking and noise as the old tree tried to rise from its rec.u.mbent position. The sun's rays were fast parching its roots, causing sharp pains to shoot through its branches.

”Oh, dear!” said the tree. ”I hope I shall be able to get on my feet soon, else people will be laughing at me for lying here so helpless.”

The golden sun went down behind the hills. Its rays could not gild the top of its branches now, and the tree missed the benediction of its parting rays. A feeling akin to homesickness came over it, and a longing, as the dews of evening came, to be once more rooted to the earth.

A wild wind sang a dirge all through the night, and ceased not till day darted over the hills. It was not very pleasant for the old tree to hear the children's regrets and words of grief as they came around it in the morning to play and sit as usual under its pleasant shade. It had hoped to have been far away by dawn, and thus have escaped the sound of their voices.

”I'll wait till they are gone, and then I must be off,” said the tree softly.

”Papa will cut it all up into wood, I know,” said the youngest of the group, a bright, three-year-old boy.

”I am going to have a piece of one of the boughs to make a cane of,”

said another.

”And oh, dear me!” sighed little blue-eyed May. ”I can't have any more autumn leaves to make pretty wreaths of for mamma.”

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