a bold Briton whose finger hurts him, but who does n't mean to cry.' Miss Lyon seated herself on the end of a bench and waited until the bandaging was completed, when Mr. Holt said: "There, Job,-thou patient man, sit still, if thou wilt; and now we can look at Miss Lyon.' "Esther had taken off her watch, and was holding it in her hand; but he looked at her face, or rather at her eyes, as he said, 'You want me to doctor your watch?' Whereupon Miss Lyon told him what she most wanted to see him about, and, as she went on, she become so much in earnest that the tears ran down her cheeks. Suddenly little Job, who had been making his own reflections upon all that took place, called out, impatiently: "She 's tut her finger!' Mr. Holt and Miss Lyon laughed; and, as the latter raised her handkerchief to wipe the tears from her cheeks, she said: 666 "Well, why should n't I be motherly to the child, Miss Lyon,' said Mrs. Holt, who had come in. I never was hard-hearted, and I never will be. It was Felix picked the child up and took to him.' "Oh, they grow out of it very fast. Here's Job Tudge, now,' said Felix, turning the little one around on his knee, and holding his head by the back. 'Job's limbs will get lanky, this little fist, that looks like a puff-ball, and can hide nothing bigger than a gooseberry, will get large and bony, and perhaps want to clutch more than its share; these wide blue eyes, that tell me more truth than Job knows, will narrow and narrow, and try to hide truth that Job would be better without knowing; this little negative nose will become long and selfasserting, and this little tongue - put out thy tongue, Job.' Job, awe-struck, under this ceremony, put out a little red tongue, very timidly. 'This tongue, hardly bigger than a rose-leaf, will get large, and thick, wag out of season, do mis "You see, Job, I'm a naughty coward. I can't chief, brag and cant for gain or vanity, and cut as help crying when I've hurt myself.' "Zoo sood n't kuy,' said Job, energetically, being much impressed with a moral doctrine which had come to him after a sufficient transgression of it. "Where does Job Tudge live?' said Miss Lyon, still sitting and looking at the droll little figure, set off by a ragged jacket with a tail about two inches deep, sticking out above the funniest of corduroys. "Job has two mansions. He lives here chiefly, but he has another home, where his grandfather, the stone-breaker, lives. My mother is very good to Job, Miss Lyon. She has made him a little bed in a cupboard, and she gives him sweetened porridge.' cruelly for all its clumsiness, as if it were a sharpedged blade. Big Job will perhaps be naughty "As Felix, speaking with the loud, emphatic distinctness habitual to him, brought out this terribly familiar word, Job's sense of mystification became too painful, he hung his lips and began to cry. "Look here, Job, my man,' said Felix, setting the boy down, and turning him toward Esther; 'go to Miss Lyon, ask her to smile at you, and that will dry up your tears like sunshine.' "Job put his two brown fists on Esther's lap, and she stooped to kiss him. Then holding his face between her hands she said, 'Tell Mr. Holt we don't mean to be naughty, Job. He should believe in us more.-But now, I must really go home.'" ARLA now walked on until she came to a street corner where a cobbler had a little shop. In the angle of the wall of the house, at the height of the second story, was a clock. This cobbler did not like the confined air and poor light of his shop, and whenever the weather allowed, he always worked outside on the sidewalk. To-day, although it was winter, the sun shone brightly on this side of the street, and he had put his bench outside, close to his door, and was sitting there, hard at work. When Arla stopped before him, he looked up and said, cheerfully : 66 'Good-morning, Mistress Arla. Do you want them half-soled, or heeled, or a patch put on the toes?" "My shoes do not need mending," said Arla. "I came to ask you if you could tell me who has charge of the clock at this corner?" "I can easily do that," he said, "for I am the man. I am paid by the year, for winding it up and keeping it in order, as much as I should get for putting the soles, heels, tops, linings, and buckles on a pair of shoes.” other hour, in fact, come before you are ready for it. Now I don't mind telling you, because I know you are too good to spoil the trade of a hard-working cobbler,—and shoemaker too, whenever he gets the chance to be one,- that when I have promised a customer that he shall have his shoes or his boots at a certain time of day, and that time is drawing near, and the end of the job is still somewhat distant, then do I skip up the stair-way and set back the hands of the clock according to the work that has to be done. And when my customer comes I look up to the clock-face and I say to him, 'Glad to see you!' and then he will look up at the clock and will say, 'Yes, I am a little too soon'; and then, as likely as not, he will sit down on the doorstep here by me and talk entertainingly; and it may happen that he will sit there without grumbling, for many minutes after the clock has pointed out the hour at which the shoes were promised. Sometimes, when I have been much belated in beginning a job, I stop the clock altogether, for you can well see for yourself that it would not do to have it strike eleven when it is truly twelve. "Which means making them out and out," And so, if my man be willing to sit down, and said Arla. "You are right," said he, "and the pay is not great; but if it were larger, more people might want it and I might lose it; and if it were less, how could I afford to do it at all? So I am satisfied." "But you ought not to be entirely satisfied," said Arla, "for the clock does not keep good time. I know when it is striking, for it has a very jangling sound, and it is the most irregular clock in Rondaine. Sometimes it strikes as much as twentyfive minutes after the hour, and very often it does not strike at all." The cobbler looked up at her with a smile. "I am sorry," he said, “that it has a jangling stroke, but the fashioning of clocks is not my trade, and I could not mend its sound with awl, hammer, or waxed-end. But it seems to me, my good maiden, that you never mended a pair of shoes." "No, indeed!" said Arla; "I should do that even worse than you would make clocks." "Never having mended shoes, then," said the cobbler, "you do not know what a grievous thing it is to have twelve o'clock, or six o'clock, or any our talk be very entertaining, the clock being above him where he can not see it without stepping outward from the house, he may not notice that it is stopped. This expedient once served me very well, for an old gentleman, over-testy and overpunctual, once came to me for his shoes, and looking up at the clock, which I had prepared for him, exclaimed, 'Bless me! I am much too early!' And he sat down by me for three-quarters of an hour, in which time I persuaded him that his shoes were far too much worn to be worth mending any more, and that he should have a new pair, which, afterward, I made." "I do not believe it is right for you to do that," said Arla; "but even if you think so, there is no reason why your clock should go wrong at night when so many people can hear it because of the stillness." "Ah, me!" said the cobbler, "I do not object to the clock being as right as you please in the night; but when my day's work is done, I so desire to go home to my supper, that I often forget to put the clock right, or to set it going if it is stopped. "SO MANY THINGS STOP AT NIGHT-SUCH AS THE DAY ITSELF THAT I THINK YOU OUGHT TO PARDON MY POOR CLOCK."" But so many things stop at night-such as the day itself and so many things then go wrong such as the ways of evil-minded people that I think you truly ought to pardon my poor clock." "Then you will not consent," said Arla, "to clock in your tower does not keep good time." make it go right?" thing to eat and drink after her walk, the two had a pleasant chat. "I will do that with all cheerfulness," answered the cobbler, pulling out a pair of waxed-ends with a great jerk," as soon as I can make myself go right. The most important thing should always be done first; and, surely, I am more important than a clock!" And he smiled with great good humor. Arla knew that it would of no use to stand there any longer and talk with this cobbler. Turning to go, she said: "When I bring you shoes to mend, you shall finish them by my clock, and not by yours." "That will I, my good little Arla," said the cobbler, heartily. "They shall be finished by any clock in town, and five minutes before the hour, or no payment." Arla now walked on until she came to the bridge over the river. It was a long, covered structure, and by the entrance sat the bridge-keeper. "Do you know, sir," said she, "that the clock at this end of your bridge does not keep the same time as the one at the other end? They are not so very different, but I have noticed that this one is always done striking at least two minutes before the other begins." The bridge-keeper looked at her with one eye, which was all he had. "You are as wrong as anybody can be," said he. "I do not say anything about the striking, because my ears are not now good enough to hear the clock at the other end when I am near this one; but I know they both keep the same time. I have often looked at this clock and have then walked to the other end of the bridge, and have found that the clock there was exactly like it." Arla looked at the poor old man, whose legs were warmly swaddled on account of his rheumatism, and said: "But it must take you a good while to walk to the other end of the bridge! "Out upon you!" cried the bridge-keeper. "I am not so old as that yet! I can walk there in no time!" Arla now crossed the bridge and went a short distance along a country road until she came to the great stone house known as Vongereau. This belonged to a rich family who seldom came there, and the place was in charge of an elderly man who was the brother of Arla's mother. When his niece was shown into a room on the ground floor, which served for his parlor and his office, he was very glad to see her; and while Arla was having some 66 "I came this time, Uncle Anton," she said, not only to see you, but to tell you that the great Uncle Anton looked at her a little surprised. "How do you know that, my dear?" he said. Then Arla told him how she had lain awake in the early morning and had heard the striking of the different clocks. "If you wish to make it right," said she, "I can give you the proper time, for I have brought my own little clock with me." She was about to take her rose-clock out of her basket, when her uncle motioned to her not to do so. "Let me tell you something," said he. "The altering of the time of day, which you speak of so lightly, is a very serious matter, which should be considered with all gravity. If you set back a clock, even as little as ten minutes, you add that much to the time that has passed. The hour which has just gone by has been made seventy minutes long. Now, no human being has the right to add anything to the past, nor to make hours longer than they were originally made. And, on the other hand, if you set a clock forward even so little as ten minutes, you take away that much from the future, and you make the coming hour only fifty minutes long. Now, no human being has a right to take anything away from the future or to make the hours shorter than they were originally intended to be. I desire, my dear niece, that you will earnestly think over what I have said, and I am sure that you will then see for yourself how unwise and even culpable it would be to trifle with the length of the hours which make up our day. And now, Arla, let us talk of other things." And so they talked of other things until Arla thought it was time to go. She saw there was something wrong in her uncle's reasoning, although she could not tell exactly what it was, and thinking about it, she slowly returned to the town. As she approached the house of the little old lady with white hair, she concluded to stop and speak to her about her clock. "She will surely be willing to alter that," said Arla, “for it is so very much out of the way." The old lady knew who Arla was, and received her very kindly; but when she heard why the young girl had come to her, she flew into a passion. "Never, since I was born," she said, "have I been spoken to like this! My great-grandfather lived in this house before me; that clock was good enough for him! My grandfather lived in this house before me; that clock was good enough for him! My father and mother lived in this house before me; that clock was good enough for them! I was born in this house; have always lived in it; and expect to die in it; that clock is good enough for me! I heard its strokes when I was but a little child; I hope to hear them at my last hour; and sooner than raise my hand against the clock of my ancestors, and the clock of my whole life, I would cut off that hand!" Some tears came into Arla's eyes; she was a little frightened. "I hope you will pardon me, good madam," she said, "for, truly, I did not wish to offend you. Nor did I think that your clock is not a good one. I only meant that you should make it better; it is nearly an hour out of the way." The sight of Arla's tears cooled the anger of the little old lady with white hair. "Child," she said, "you do not know what you are talking about, and I forgive you. But remember this: never ask persons as old as I am to alter the principles which have always made clear to them what they should do, or the clocks which have always told them when they should do it." And, kissing Arla, she bade her good-bye. "Principles may last a great while without altering," thought Arla, as she went away, "but I am sure it is very different with clocks." The poor girl now felt a good deal discouraged. "People don't seem to care whether their clocks are right or not," she said to herself, "and if they don't care, I am sure it is of no use for me to tell them about it. If even one clock could be made to go properly, it might help to make the people of Rondaine care to know exactly what time it is. Now, there is that iron donkey; if he would but kick at the right hour, it would be an excellent thing, for he kicks so hard that he is heard all over the town." Determined to make this one more effort, Arla walked quickly to the town-building at the top of which was the clock with the iron donkey. This building was a sort of museum; it had a great many curious things in it, and it was in charge of a very ingenious man who was learned and skillful in various ways. When Arla had informed the superintendent of the museum why she had come to him, he did not laugh at her, nor did he get angry. He was accustomed to giving earnest consideration to matters of this sort, and he listened attentively to all that Arla had to say. "You must know," he said, "that our iron donkey is a very complicated piece of mechanism. Not only must he kick out the hours, but five minutes before doing so he must turn his head around and look at the bell behind him; and then when he has done kicking he must put his head back into its former position. All this action requires a great many wheels and cogs and springs and levers, and these can not be made to move with absolute regularity. When it is cold, some of his works contract; and when it is warm, they expand, and there are other reasons why he is very likely to lose or gain time. At noon on every bright day I set him right, being able to get the correct time from a sun-dial which stands in the court-yard. But his works, which I am sorry to say are not well made, are sure to get a great deal out of the way before I set him again." "Then, if there are several cloudy or rainy days together, he goes very wrong indeed,” said Arla. "Yes, he truly does," replied the superintendent, "and I am sorry for it. But there is no way to remedy his irregularities except for me to make him all over again at my own expense, and that is something I can not afford to do. The clock belongs to the town, and I am sure the citizens will not be willing to spend the money necessary for a new donkey-clock; for, so far as I know, every person but yourself is perfectly satisfied with this one." I suppose so," said Arla, with a sigh; "but it really is a great pity that every striking-clock in Rondaine should be wrong!" "But how do you know they all are wrong?" asked the superintendent. "Oh, that is easy enough,” said Arla. "When I lie awake in the early morning, when all else is very still, I listen to their striking, and then I look at my own rose-clock to see what time it really is." "Your rose-clock?" said the superintendent. "This is it," said Arla, opening her basket and taking out her little clock. The superintendent took it into his hands and looked at it attentively, both outside and inside. And then, still holding it, he stepped out into the court-yard. When in a few moments he returned, he said: "I have compared your clock with my sundial, and find that it is ten minutes slow. I also see that, like the donkey-clock, its works are not adjusted in such a way as to be unaffected by heat and cold." "Yes," said the superintendent, “that is the case to-day, and on some days it is, probably, a great deal too fast. Such a clock as this - which is a very ingenious and beautiful one-ought frequently to be compared with a sun-dial or other correct time-keeper, and set to the proper hour. I see it requires a peculiar key with which to set it. Have you brought this with you?” "No, sir," said Arla; "I did not suppose it would be needed." "Well, then," said the superintendent, "you |