“Now, you good little rule,” said he, addressing the shining object in his hand, “I ’ll put you in my breast-pocket and keep you safe and warm next to my heart.  Then you ’ll be ready if I want you again.”  And he was just about to thrust it in his bosom, when his eyes were caught by something unusual upon its surface, and on examining it very closely he saw, in exquisitely chased characters, the words,—­

  Nor sigh nor weep o’er thine own ills;
  Such plaining earth with mourning fills. 
  Forget thyself, and thou shalt see
  Thyself remembered blessedly.

For some time after he had read the lines he was plunged in thought.  They seemed to teach him a lesson that it took him some little time to learn.

“I don’t know why it should make the world sad if one complains,” he mused.  “But I s’pose it does.  I s’pose one has n’t any right to make things unpleasant for other people by crying about things.  One ought to be brave and not bother folks with one’s troubles.  Well, I ’ll try not to do so any more, because if it’s going to make things so unpleasant it can’t be right.”

And this last word seemed to link in his mind his escape from the complaint of his loneliness and the by-path down which he did not turn; and he was so long trying to unravel the mystery of the connection that before he knew it he had almost stumbled into quite a bog, and there, in front of him, sat a wee child,—­just where two roads met,—­and he had well-nigh run over her in his carelessness.

“Oh, bother!” said he,—­for he was irritated at the thought of having only so narrowly escaped doing himself serious damage,—­“what do you get in a fellow’s way for?  You—­” But the poor little mite gazed up at him so sadly, and wept so piteously at his hasty words that he paused suddenly and did not go on.

He looked down the two paths.  The one was wide and curving, the other narrow and straight; the one was bordered with rich foliage, the other was bare and sandy.  He might have run lightly along the one, he would have to toil wearisomely along the other.  What wonder that his foot was turning in the direction of the first!  But a queer pricking in his bosom and the child’s cry stopped him.

He slowly drew forth his rule and began to measure, while the little one sobbed,—­

“I ’m so told I tan’t walt any more.  My foots are all tired out, and I want sumpin to eat;” and there he found himself just on the verge of making a fearful blunder.  He got up from his knees and turning to the tiny maid, said kindly,—­

“There, there! don’t cry, dear!  We ’ll fix you all right;” and he stripped off his jacket and wrapped it about her, taking her in his arms, and trudging on with his burden along the more difficult way.  But it was the right one, and he knew it; and so his heart was light, and he did not have time to think of his own weariness; for all the time he was trying to comfort his forlorn little companion.  And so well he succeeded that in no time at all she was asleep on his shoulder.  Then he sat down by the roadside, and holding her still in his arms, began to think.