A STORY OF .-1 LILY. 53

“Remind me now,” she cautioned, t0 take it off —so-nzetz'me. That’s the trouble with my cooking, I forget; I burned my biscuit black last night, and left the rice three days in the stew-pan. Now, remind me of the coffee. What I want to ask is—can’t you move a trifle? l’n1 almost inched into Elk River. There, that’s better. Now, I want to know: do

wonzen ever turn preaclzcr?”

“Goodness! No! They are born preachers; they never let up, never, not until they're in their graves,” said he.

Ah,” said the child, I should have thought you xvould have answered better, truer than that.”

Then he saw that she was serious, and, as he always did, went out to meet her mind.

Would you like a stony, now?” he asked. “Though 1’ll warn you at the start it l1as its book baited.”

G0 on,” said she, twisting the crisp leaves of a laurel shrub that grew among the rocks, go on,— 1’ll follow the example of the fish and try to snip the bait off, and dodge the hook. Go on l

Women,” said he, “presume upon the insignifi- eance, the seenzvizrg smallness of the sins which they commit: as vanity, untruth, envyiiig one another, gossiping, and scolding. Men do their ugly deeds in daylight: murder, arson, and such hideous things one shakes to hear of them.

But sins, I’ve sometimes thought, were weighed,

like common stuffs, in balances; and that ’tis not the