Soon after I had finished my supper, a neighbour came in, and it was not long before he and the man of the house were involved in a warm political discussion, in which were many more assertions than reasons.  My host was not a very clear-headed man; while his antagonist was wordy and specious.  The former, as might be supposed, very naturally became excited, and, now and then, indulged himself in rather strong expressions toward his neighbour, who, in turn, dealt back wordy blows that were quite as heavy as he had received, and a good deal more irritating.

And now I marked again the power of that maiden’s gentle hand.  I did not notice her movement to her father’s side.  She was there when I first observed her, with one hand laid upon his temple, and lightly smoothing the hair with a caressing motion.  Gradually the high tone of then disputant subsided, and his words had in them less of personal rancour.  Still, the discussion went on; and I noticed that the maiden’s hand, which rested on the temple when unimpassioned words were spoken, resumed its caressing motion the instant there was the smallest perceptible tone of anger in the father’s voice.  It was a beautiful sight; and I could but look on and wonder at the power of that touch, so light and unobtrusive, yet possessing a spell over the hearts of all around her.  As she stood there, she looked like an angel of peace, sent to still the turbulent waters of human passion.  Sadly out of place, I could not but think her, amid the rough and rude; and yet, who more than they need the softening and humanizing influences of one like the Gentle Hand.

Many times more, during that evening, did I observe the magic power of her hand and voice—­the one gentle yet potent as the other.

On the next morning, breakfast being over, I was preparing to take my departure, when my host informed me that if I would wait for half an hour he would give me a ride in his wagon to G——­, as business required him to go there.  I was very well pleased to accept of the invitation.  In due time, the farmer’s wagon was driven into the road before the house, and I was invited to get in.  I noticed the horse as a rough-looking Canadian pony, with a certain air of stubborn endurance.  As the farmer took his seat by my side, the family came to the door to see us off.

“Dick!” said the farmer, in a peremptory voice, giving the rein a quick jerk as he spoke.

But Dick moved not a step.

“Dick! you vagabond! get up.”  And the farmer’s whip cracked sharply by the pony’s ear.

It availed not, however, this second appeal.  Dick stood firmly disobedient.  Next the whip was brought down upon him, with an impatient hand; but the pony only reared up a little.  Fast and sharp the strokes were next dealt to the number of a half-dozen.  The man might as well have beaten his wagon, for all his end was gained.