been studying my face, thoughtfully, with a still expression
of wonder.

"I'll try to learn," said she, slowly. "I'll do anything you want me to."

"Do you like to read?" I inquired, in a brighter tone.

"Stories?" said Rebecca, a sparkle waking in her eyes.

"Stories mixed with other things," I insisted, gently; and was then
compelled to wonder how many of those "other things" had found their way
into the literary appointment of my trunk.

"I'll try," said Rebecca.

"Come to the Ark, after school, and look over the books I have. We will
talk some more about it, and you shall select as you please, or I will
select for you, if you desire," I said, looking at Rebecca with kindly
though severe penetration.

"I'd rather you would," said Rebecca, obediently.

To inflict this particular sort of patronage was a delightfully new
experience for me. The glaring inconsistencies which confronted me at
every turn only gave a heightened zest to the pursuit.

When I went to the door to blow the horn I felt that Rebecca already
regarded me as her patron, guide, and spiritual mentor, and I was
seriously resolved to fill these positions hopefully for her and with
credit to myself. With respect to the rest of my flock, I felt a
different sort of interest--the wide-awake concern of one who finds
himself suddenly perched on the back of a mettlesome, untried steed.

Any one member of that benighted corps, taken as the subject of pruning
and cultivating effort, would have occupied, I believed, the faithful
labors of a lifetime. Considered as a gloriously rampant mass, the aspect
of the field was appalling.

I was especially impressed with this view of the case when I went to toot
them in from those free and reckless diversions in, which their souls
expanded and their bodies became as the winged creatures of the earth.

The horn was still an object of terror to me, though experience had made
me wise enough to institute, on all occasions, a careful preliminary
search for buttons.

Its blast, freighted with baleful meaning to the ears of sportive
innocence, found a melancholy echo among the deeper woes of my own heart,
and, if it chanced to be one of Aunt Lobelia's singing days, the "Dar' to
be a Dan-yell! Dar' to be a Dan-yell!" which floated across the lane, had
but a doubtfully inspiriting effect.

I felt, indeed, like a Daniel doomed to convocate my own lions, and
lacking that faith in a preserving Providence which is believe