en he spoke of politics. "There's the new
President," he said; "it has been a great week in Washington. His
administration ought to mean great things for you people down here."

Thus he roused their interest; thus he led them to ask questions; thus
he drew them into eager controversy; thus he waked their minds into
activity; thus he roused their sluggish souls.

But he found his keenest delight in the children's gardens.

They were such lovely little gardens now--with violets blooming in
their borders, with daffodils and jonquils and hyacinths. Every bit of
bloom spoke to him of Mary. Not for one moment had she lost her
interest in the children's gardens, although she had ceased, it seemed,
to have interest in any other of his affairs.

Before he went, the children had to have their fairy tale. But
to-night he would not tell them Cinderella or Red Riding Hood. The day
seemed to demand something more than that, so he told them the story of
the ninety and nine, and of the sheep that was lost.

He made much of the story of the sheep, showing to these children, who
knew little of shepherds and little of mountains, a picture which held
them breathless. For far back, perhaps, the ancestors of these
sand-hill folk had herded sheep on the hills of Scotland.

Then he sang the song, and so well did he tell the story and so well
did he sing the song that they rejoiced with him over the sheep that
was found--for he had made it a little lamb--helpless and bleating, and
wanting very much its mother.

The song, borne on the wings of the wind, reached the ears of a man
with a worn face, who slouched in the shadow of the pines.

Later he spoke to Roger Poole. "I reckon I'm that lost sheep," he
said, soberly, "an' nobody ain't gone out to find me--yit."

"Find yourself," said Roger.

The man stared.

"Find yourself," Roger said; "look at those little gardens over there
that the children have made. Can you match them?"

"I reckon I've got somethin' else to do beside make gardens," drawled
the man.

"What have you got to do that's better?" Roger demanded.

The man hesitated and Roger pressed his point. "Flowers for the
children--crops for men--I'll wager you've a lot of land and don't know
what to do with it. Let's try to make things grow."

"Us? You mean you and me, parson?"

"Yes. And while we plant and sow, we'll talk about the state of your
soul." Roger reached out his hand to the lean and lank sinner.