ered kindness; but when
he tried to caress her and spoke kindly, she shrank under the cover
and hid her head with fear.

It was not a child, but a little animal--a wild being of an unknown
species in a child's skin--the missing link, perhaps; the link
missing between the natural, kindly instinct of the wild thing, the
brute, the monkey, the anthropoid ape, which protects its young even
at the expense of its life, and civilized man of to-day, the speaking
creature, the so-called Christian creature, who sells his young to
the director-Devils of mills and machinery and prolongs his own life
by the death of his offspring.

Biology teaches that many of the very lowest forms of life eat their
young. Is civilized man merely a case, at last, of reversion to a
primitive type?

She hid her head and then peeped timidly from under the cover at the
kindly old man. He had seen a fox driven into its hole by dogs do the
same thing.

She did not know what a smile meant, nor a caress, nor a proffered
gift. Tremblingly she lay, under the dirty quilt, expecting a kick, a
cuff.

The Bishop sat down by the bedside and took out a paper. "It'll be an
hour or so I can spend," he said to the mother--"maybe you'd like to
be doin' about a little."

"Come to think of it, I'm pow'ful obleeged to you," she said. "I've
all my mornin' washin' to do yit, only I was afraid to leave her
alone."

"You do yo' washin'--I'll watch her. I'm a pretty good sort of a hoss
doctor myse'f."

The child had nodded off to sleep, the Bishop was reading his paper,
when a loud voice was heard in the hallway and some rough steps that
shook the little flimsily made floor of the cottage, and made it rock
with the tramp of them. The door opened suddenly and Jud Carpenter,
angry, boisterous, and presumptuous, entered. The child had awakened
at the sound of Carpenter's foot fall, and now, frightened beyond
control, she trembled and wept under the cover.

There are natural antipathies and they are God-given. They are the
rough cogs in the wheel of things. But uneven as they are, rough and
grating, strike them off and the wheel would be there still, but it
would not turn. It is the friction of life that moves it. And
movement is the law of life.

Antipathies--thank God who gave them to us! But for them the shepherd
dog would lie down with the wolf.

The only man in Cottontown who did not like the Bishop was Jud
Carpenter, and the only man in the world whom the Bi