It Is Never Too Late to Mend

is full

not see how true this a

a mortal house. Job's black day, like the day of the poetic prophets-the true sacri vates of the ancient world-is a type of a year-

earth, and lays his towering head in the dust; and even so circumstances, none of them singly irresistible, converging to one point, buffeted sore another oak pride of our fields, and, for aught I know, of our whole island-an honest English yeoman; and tore him from his farm, from his house hard by his mother's grave, from the joy of his heart, his Susan, and sent him who had never

istraction to the unfathomable grief-it is one little shade worse to lie so

uivering from head to foot in George's kitchen, to see that sh

at "The Grove," William harnessed one of the farm-h

f three, but then we shan't jolt h

e side of the c

about half way, to complain in a sort of hopeless, piti

of the sleeves; Susan made a little, silent, peevish and not very

of the cart her eye was fixed, her che

isconsolately by the cart, asking himself what he could do next for her and George. Presently he heard a slight rustle, and it

put her hand out to William, and it appe

om a moment. At this Susan gave a hysterical so

ll be enough if I indicate by-and-by her state, after time and religion and good habits had begun to struggle, sometimes gaining, sometimes losing, against the tide of sorrow. For the present let us draw gently back and leave her, for she is bowed to the earth-fallen on her knees, her head buried in the curtains of her