ken, doctor. I cannot go to the root of the moral
disease of Rehoboth. If it were drink, or profligacy, or greed, I
might; but self-righteousness beat Jesus, and no wonder it beats
me.'

Taking Mr. Penrose by the arm, Dr. Hale said:

'You see that falling snow. Why does it disappear as soon as it
touches earth?'

'Because the earth is higher in temperature than the snow, and
therefore melts it,' replied the young man, wondering at the
sudden change in the conversation.

'And if it keeps on falling for another hour, why will it cease to
disappear? Why will it remain?' continued the doctor.

'Because its constant falling will so cool the earth that the
earth will no longer melt it,' said Mr. Penrose, growing impatient
with his examination in the rudiments of science.

'Well said, my friend. And therein lies a parable. You think your
teaching falls to disappear. No; it falls to prepare. You must
continue to let it fall, and finally it will remain, and lodge
itself in the minds of your people. There, now, I have given you
one of the treasures of the snow. But here's old Moses.
Good-morning, Mr. Fletcher; busy as usual?'

'Yi, doctor, aw'm findin' these clamming fowk a bit o' brass.'

'How's that, Moses?' asked the minister.

'Why, yo' know as weel as aw do, Mr. Penrose. Sin' I yerd yo' talk
abaat Him as gies liberally, I thought aw'd do a bit on mi own
accaant.'

'There, now,' said Dr. Hale, 'the snow is beginning to stay, is it
not?'

As the doctor and Moses said 'Good-day,' the pastor continued his
walk in a brooding mood, scarce lifting his head from the ground,
on which the flakes were falling more thickly and beginning to
remain. Lost in thought, and continuing his way towards the end of
the village, he was startled by a tapping at the window of Abraham
Lord's cottage, and, looking up, he saw Milly's beckoning hand.

Passing up the garden-path and entering the kitchen, he bade the
girl a good-afternoon, and asked her if she were waiting for the
'angel een.'

'Nay,' said Milly; 'I'm baan to be content wi' th' daawn (down)
off their wings to-day.'

'So you call the snow "angels' down," do you?'

'Ey, Mr. Penrose,' cried her mother. 'Hoo's names for everythin'
yo' can think on. Hoo seed a great sunbeam on a bank of white
claads t' other day, and hoo said hoo thought it were God Hissel',
because th' owd Book said as He made th' clouds His chariot.'

'But why do you call the snow "angels' down," Milly