ious occasions cures had been wrought by means of money; teeth had
been brought through, the pangs of colic beguiled, and numerous other
ailments to which infancy is heir had by the same specific been
baffled. So now Old Growly set about wooing his little boy from the
embrace of death,--sought to coax him back to health with money, and
the dimes became dollars, and the tin bank was like to burst of
fulness. But little Abel drooped and drooped, and he lost all interest
in other things, and he was content to lie, drooping-eyed and listless,
in his mother's arms all day. At last the little flame went out with
hardly so much as a flutter, and the hope of the house of Dunklee was
dissipated forever. But even in those last moments of the little
cripple's suffering the father struggled to call back the old look into
the fading eyes, and the old smile into the dear, white face. He
brought treasure from his vaults and held it up before those fading
eyes, and promised it all, all, all--everything he possessed, gold,
houses, lands--all he had he would give to that little child if that
little child would only live. But the fading eyes saw other things,
and the ears that were deaf to the old man's lamentations heard voices
that soothed the anguish of that last solemn hour. And so little Abel
knew the Mystery.

Then the old man crept away from that vestige of his love, and stood
alone in the night, and lifted up his face, and beat his bosom, and
moaned at the stars, asking over and over again why he had been so
bereaved. And while he agonized in this wise and cried there came to
him a voice,--a voice so small that none else could hear, a voice
seemingly from God; for from infinite space beyond those stars it sped
its instantaneous way to the old man's soul and lodged there.

"Abel, I have touched thy heart!"

And so, having come into the darkness of night, old Dunklee went back
into the light of day and found life beautiful; for the touch was in
his heart.

After that, Old Growly's way of dealing with the world changed. He had
always been an honest man, honest as the world goes. But now he was
somewhat better than honest; he was kind, considerate, merciful.
People saw and felt the change, and they knew why it was so. But the
pathetic part of it all was that Old Growly would never admit--no, not
even to himself--that he was the least changed from his old grinding,
hard self. The good deeds he did were not his own; they