y to a poisoned
vine that wrapped itself so tightly about his favorite tree that vine
and tree became one life, and the removal of the one meant the death
of the other. But in her most famous story George Eliot tells us that
avarice passes utterly away before the touch of love. Silas Marner was
the victim of blackest ingratitude. His friend was a thief, who thrust
upon him the blame of a black crime. Suddenly, this innocent man found
all homes closed to his hand, all shops locked to his tools, while
even the market refused his wares. Through two years and more, right
bravely he held his head aloft and looked all men in the face. At
length hunger and want drove him forth a wanderer. Then he shook off
the dust of his feet against his false friends, and cursed their
firesides. Kindness in him soured into cynicism, his sweetness became
bitterness, his faith in God and man fluttered feebly for awhile, then
lay without a single pulse-beat. In anger he cursed God, but could not
die.

Journeying afar, the traveler at length stayed his steps in a distant
village. Then in toil he sought to forget. Rising a great while before
day, he wrought with the activity of a spinning insect; and while men
slept, his loom hummed far into the night. When fifteen years had
passed, he had much gold and was a miser. Under the brick floor he
secreted his treasure. Each night he locked the door, shuttered his
windows, and poured upon the table his gold and silver. He bathed his
hands in the yellow river. He piled his guineas up in heaps. Sometimes
he slept with arms around his precious money-bags. One evening he
lifted the bricks of the floor, to find that the hole was empty.
Benumbed with terror, he went everywhither seeking his treasure. He
kneaded his bed, swept his oven, peered into each crack and crevice.
When the full truth fell upon the miser, he sent forth a wild, ringing
scream--the soul's cry of desolation. Then in his grief he rushed into
the rain and the wild night, and wandered on and on, stupefied with
pain. Not until morning came did he stagger in out of the storm.
Entering, he saw the glint of yellow by his hearth. With a wild cry he
sprang forward and clutched it. But it was not gold; it was something
better--it was the yellow locks of a sleeping child. Broken-hearted,
with nothing else to live for, Silas Marner took the deserted babe
into his bosom. As the weeks went on, the little creature nestled into
his heart. For the child's