IN a quiet, lonely spot, beside a mountain-road, a half barrel stood partly sunk in the ground. A small wooden trough resting on its rim led the water from a spring that was hidden a little way back in the woods. The water was for ever running into it, yet the half barrel was never full. Its hoops were loosened, its joints opened, and much of the pure stream that it received escaped, trickling down its sides and sinking into the earth. But while it was never full, except perhaps once or twice in a summer, when there fell such a flood of rain as overcame all its leaks and openings, neither was it ever quite empty; for, although it was a poor leaky vessel at best, it had never quite fallen to pieces.

A few miles beyond this spot, on that mountain-road, stood what looked to be the other half of the same barrel. A trough exactly similar to the first led a stream of water into it, but this half barrel, compact and tight, was always full to the brim ready to spare some of its refreshing contents to the tired traveller, who, after he had quenched his own thirst, unreined his horse and allowed him to sink his mouth deeply into it and drink.

Some men, retaining their gracious gifts, are ever ready to impart to those who need; while others, suffering the loss of theirs, are ever in need themselves.