in leaving, they wished to know the reason why. It was
this paralysis'"--Mr. Stone did not pause, but, finding himself close
beside his desk, took up his pen--"'it was this paralysis of the leaping
nerve which undermined their progress. Instead of millions of leaping
lambs, ignorant of why they leaped, they were a flock of sheep lifting
up one leg and asking whether it was or was not worth their while to
lift another.'"

The words were followed by a silence, broken only by the scratching of
the quill with which Mr. Stone was writing.

Having finished, he again began to pace the room, and coming suddenly on
his daughter, stopped short. Touching her shoulder timidly, he said: "I
was talking to you, I think, my dear; where were we?"

Bianca rubbed her cheek against his hand.

"In the air, I think."

"Yes, yes," said Mr. Stone, "I remember. You must not let me wander from
the point again."

"No, dear."

"Lambs," said Mr. Stone, "remind me at times of that young girl who
comes to copy for me. I make her skip to promote her circulation before
tea. I myself do this exercise." Leaning against the wall, with his feet
twelve inches from it, he rose slowly on his toes. "Do you know that
exercise? It is excellent for the calves of the legs, and for the lumbar
regions." So saying, Mr. Stone left the wall, and began again to pace
the room; the whitewash had also left the wall, and clung in a large
square patch on his shaggy coat. "I have seen sheep in Spring," he said,
"actually imitate their lambs in rising from the ground with all four
legs at once." He stood still. A thought had evidently struck him.

"If Life is not all Spring, it is of no value whatsoever; better to die,
and to begin again. Life is a tree putting on a new green gown; it is
a young moon rising--no, that is not so, we do not see the young moon
rising--it is a young moon setting, never younger than when we are about
to die--"

Bianca cried out sharply: "Don't, Father! Don't talk like that; it's so
untrue! Life is all autumn, it seems to me!"

Mr. Stone's eyes grew very blue.

"That is a foul heresy," he stammered; "I cannot listen to it. Life is
the cuckoo's song; it is a hill-side bursting into leaf; it is the wind;
I feel it in me every day!"

He was trembling like a leaf in the wind he spoke of, and Bianca moved
hastily towards him, holding out her arms. Suddenly his lips began to
move; she heard him mutter: "I have lost force; I will boil some m