AN old man and a young one were walking together over a rough and hilly road. Said the old man:

“Though I detain you by being unable to keep up with your rapid step, yet, in spite of this feeble frame, I am feeling in spirit as young as you. Perhaps you can hardly believe this?”

“I can believe it if you say so,” replied the young man, “but confess that when I look at your snowy locks and your bent form, I cannot understand it.”

“Stop a moment,” said the old man, drawing out his watch and exposing its works to view. “You see that, like myself, this watch has seen its best days. Its case shows wear, and so do its works. These little cog-wheels do not fit into each other as closely as they once did, and they are growing farther apart, by wear, every day. But now look at the mainspring, where it lies, here, coiled up by itself. It shows no wear. The same power and elasticity it has had all along remain in it still.”

“I see,” replied the other; and, becoming so interested in the watch as to forget it was being used only as an illustration, he continued: “Why do you not have the rest of the works repaired?”

“Your question is natural,” said the old man. “So I might have these worn-out works repaired, but not this worn-out body. Neither do I desire it. It will soon have done its work and lasted out its appointed time here. But in another state of being the immortal part—the mainspring, so to speak—will live on, clothed with a new body as immortal as itself. It is this that still remains as vigorous as ever, and makes me feel, in spirit, as young as yourself.”

As we advance in years we are conscious of that within us which does not grow old, but which, having learned that this world cannot satisfy, grows weary of it, and peers anxiously into the next.