It left the road by school and church,
  A pencilled shadow, nothing more,
  That parted from the silver birch
  And ended at the farmhouse door.

  No line or compass traced its plan;
  With frequent bends to left or right,
  In aimless, wayward curves it ran,
  But always kept the door in sight.

  The gabled porch, with woodbine green,—­
  The broken millstone at the sill,—­
  Though many a rood might stretch between,
  The truant child could see them still.

  No rocks across the pathway lie,—­
  No fallen trunk is o’er it thrown,—­
  And yet it winds, we know not why,
  And turns as if for tree or stone.

  Perhaps some lover trod the way
  With shaking knees and leaping heart,—­
  And so it often runs astray
  With sinuous sweep or sudden start.

  Or one, perchance, with clouded brain
  From some unholy banquet reeled,—­
  And since, our devious steps maintain
  His track across the trodden field.

  Nay, deem not thus,—­no earth-born will
  Could ever trace a faultless line;
  Our truest steps are human still,—­
  To walk unswerving were divine!

  Truants from love, we dream of wrath;—­
  Oh, rather let us trust the more! 
  Through all the wanderings of the path,
  We still can see our Father’s door!

THE MINISTER’S WOOING.

[Continued.]

CHAPTER X.

THE TEST OF THEOLOGY.

The Doctor went immediately to his study and put on his best coat and his wig, and, surmounting them by his cocked hat, walked manfully out of the house, with his gold-headed cane in his hand.

“There he goes!” said Mrs. Scudder, looking regretfully after him.  “He is such a good man! but he has not the least idea how to get along in the world.  He never thinks of anything but what is true; he hasn’t a particle of management about him.”

“Seems to me,” said Mary, “that is like an Apostle.  You know, mother, St. Paul says, ’In simplicity and godly sincerity, not with fleshly wisdom, but by the grace of God, we have had our conversation in the world.’”

“To be sure,—­that is just the Doctor,” said Mrs. Scudder; “that’s as like him as if it had been written for him.  But that kind of way, somehow, don’t seem to do in our times; it won’t answer with Simeon Brown,——­I know the man.  I know just as well, now, how it will all seem to him, and what will be the upshot of this talk, if the Doctor goes there!  It won’t do any good; if it would, I would be willing.  I feel as much desire to have this horrid trade in slaves stopped as anybody; your father, I’m sure, said enough about it in his time; but then I know it’s no use trying.  Just as if Simeon Brown, when he is making his hundreds of thousands in it, is going to be persuaded to give it up!