"What is the matter with your colt's eye?" asked Chester, as they walked amid the young corn.

"I am afraid it is spoilt," replied Mark, between his teeth.

"Spoilt! Not your new horse,—the splendid sorrel colt you got of Mr. Skenitt?"

"Yes; the splendid sorrel colt; if 'twas either of the others, I wouldn't care so much."

"How did it happen?" cried Mr. Royden, deeply pained.

"By——"

The oath came out before Mark thought of it.

"I beg your pardon, sir," he added, with emotion, turning to the old clergyman. "I'm so in the habit of swearing, that I swear without knowing what I am about."

"My friend," replied Father Brighthopes, laying his hand kindly upon his shoulder, "I forgive you, from the bottom of my heart. But it is not of me you should ask pardon. I know the slavery of habit. It is only by resolutely breaking its chains that we can be free."

"An oath must shock you," muttered Mark, penitently.

"True, my friend. I look upon profanity as awful, in view of the stern commandment, 'Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain.' But, if you take an oath, it matters little whether I hear it. Not against me, but against God and your own soul, is the sin."

"I never thought about the sin being so very great."

"At least," said the old man, kindly, "swearing is not wise. You purchase no pleasure, I am sure, by an idle oath."

"Well, but it is not so easy to break off the habit," replied Mark.

"I have heard a story of a converted sailor," said Chester,—to whom the subject seemed an unpleasant one, without spice,—"who, from his youth upwards, had made profane expletives a large proportion of his conversation, so that, when he came to pray, the favorite oaths would, in spite of himself, besprinkle the piety of his prayer. Yet he prayed with a soul convulsed with anguish for his sins, and, with profanity on his lips, pleaded that he might be pardoned the folly of swearing."

"And he was pardoned! believe it, that prayer was accepted and answered!" exclaimed the old man, with enthusiasm. "It is the heart God reads,—the heart, the heart!"

"I was going to tell you about the colt," said Mark, after a pause. "I went into the yard, and found him picking some spears of grass out of the corner of the fence. He didn't see me, and, without thinking, I spoke to him quick; he flung up his head," continued Mark, with emotion, "and the point of a rail struck him right in the eye."

"Did it put it out?"

"I am afraid so. I wouldn't have had it happen—" another oath—"for one hundred dollars!"

Beyond the cornfield was a swampy lot, overgrown with coarse, wild grass, and partially drained by a black, sluggish stream. Mark led the way, treading upon stones, sticks and slabs, in springy spots, or walking upon logs, that lay rotting upon the ground. Mr. Royden followed, and Chester, with Father Brighthopes, came after.

"I hope you will not wet your feet," said the young man, helping the clergyman over a bad place. "Step on this dead limb; it is solid."

"That is well passed," cried the other, cheerily. "What a fine thing it would be, if, in the difficult path of life, we could get over all bad habits as easily!"

"There is one habit," rejoined Chester, in a low tone, "which I trust I have overcome,—thanks to your timely counsel."

"Ah? It is gratifying to me to hear you say so."

"And I feel that I owe you an apology."

"Me? How so?" asked the old man.

"The truth is," replied Chester, coloring very red, and speaking as if it was a great effort and a relief to be candid, "I haven't been easy in my conscience since the unlucky—or rather lucky—day I met you outside the stage-coach."

"Oh, never speak of it. It is all forgotten," exclaimed Father Brighthopes.

"Not with me, Father. I have been heartily ashamed of my conduct. It was kind in you to rebuke me for swearing, and I should have taken it so. What you said appealed to my reason and to my feelings. But I was too proud to acknowledge the justice of your reproof; and, as I did not know you, I thought to carry out my assumed recklessness by a dash of insolence."

"I forgave it at the moment, my son. I understood it all."

"I hope you will not think I have been in the habit of using profane language," said Chester. "It is my misfortune to be easily influenced by the kind of society I am in. You remember, I was conversing with a wild fellow, who was by no means sparing of oaths. I have lived in the atmosphere of too many such; and, somehow, I have learned to imitate their habits unconsciously."

"Our only armor against such influences is firm principle," answered the old man, encouragingly. "No warm-blooded young person, entering the world, is safe without this."

"It must be so, Father. But why is it that the sight of vice does not always strike us with the same disgust or horror as the mere contemplation of it?"

"We can accustom our palate to any description of vile drugs, by persisting in their use, I suppose."

"I see," said Chester.

the vices we come in contact with. But vices we witness for the first time—they do not always shock us."

"The more pleasing the devil's coat, the more dangerous he is," replied Father Brighthopes. "And there is another thing to be considered. Persons following intellectual pursuits are apt to take purely intellectual views of great as well as petty crimes. The independent MIND can analyze the nature of a murder, coolly as the anatomist dissects his human subject. Eugene Aram has too much intellect. Perhaps his heart is not bad,—what there is of it,—but its virtue is negative. When we silence the conscience, in judging of right and wrong, reason is sure to lead us astray."

"I understand now, better than ever before, why expanded minds are so prone to smile upon and shake hands with crime," said Chester. "Enlarging the intellect, to the neglect of the soul, we leave this to become shriveled, like a flower growing in the shade of a great tree."

"A truth, my young friend, every student should bear in mind," observed the clergyman, earnestly.

Chester walked before him, on a thick fragment of bark, and over a grassy knoll, in silence. He was wondering why it was that the gentle old man had gained such a power over him, to conquer his pride, and to call out his deepest feelings.

"I don't know why it is," said he, as they crossed a rude bridge, thrown over the sluggish brook, "but I feel as though I could talk with you more freely than with anybody else. Perhaps it is well that the stage-coach incident occurred. I felt that I must apologize to you for my ungentlemanly conduct; and I see that what was so unpleasant to me was only the breaking of the ice. It must be your wide and genial charity that has had such an effect upon me. Clergymen are generally such grim moralists, that they make me shudder."

"When I consider the calm benignity, the ineffably sweet wisdom, the infinite love of Him who said, 'Go, and sin no more,' what am I, that I should condemn a brother?" said Father Brighthopes, with suffused features.

Chester was deeply touched.

"I am not a wilful sinner," he muttered, from his heart. "I do love purity, goodness, holiness. I hate myself for my bad nature!" he exclaimed, bitterly.

"Ah, that will never do," replied the old man, softly and kindly. "My son, I feel for you. I feel with you. But the nature God has given you in his wisdom,—hate not that. It is the soil in which your soul is planted. You must be content with it for a season. It is a suicidal thought, to wish your roots plucked up, because they reach down amid weeds and rottenness. No; cultivate the soil. Carefully, prayerfully purify it, and subdue its rankness. Then shall your spirit, grafted with the scion of holiness, flourish like a goodly tree. It shall gather wholesome sustenance from below, and at the same time it shall blossom and bloom, and put forth green leaves, struggling upward, upward,—higher, higher, still—in the golden atmosphere; its fruits shall ripen in the beautiful sunlight of heaven, and it shall be blessed forevermore."

"But the flowers fade, the leaves fall, the fruit drops off and decays, and the tree is a naked, desolate object, when the storms of winter wheel and whistle around it," said Chester, darkly.

"Not so with the TREE OF LIFE," cried the old man, with fine enthusiasm. "Earth is but its nursery. In his own good time, the Husbandman transplants it into the pure soil of his eternal gardens."

"And the weeds are burned in everlasting fire!"

"The weeds—yes; let us hope so! Let us pray that the good God will deliver us from the weeds of all base passion, which continually spring up in the most carefully tended soil of earth. What remembrance do we need of this swamp-lot, when we are once out of its mud and mire?"

"I mean," said Chester, "those trees which the weeds do choke,—those wild crabs which bring forth no good fruit,—they are cast out."

"And can the good Husbandman plant them side by side with the better trees, in his garden?" asked the clergyman. "Indeed, would they flourish in a soil so different from that they loved here too well? Nor would they choose that soil. If they are not prepared for the companionship of the cultivated grafts, other and lower places will be found most appropriate for their unsubdued natures."

Chester remained very thoughtful. By this time they had come in sight of Mark's house,—a wood-colored building, situated on a pleasant rise of ground, in the midst of an orchard. Mr. Royden and Mark were already climbing the fence built about the inclosure, in the midst of which stood the barn and stables.