ht, of course, to do what we please with our own."

"Now, Jack," said Wilkins, "I'm not going to set up for a little
preacher, or attempt to argue with a big philosopher, but I'll tell you
what my father has impressed on me about this matter. One day, when we
were passing some ragged boys playing pitch-and-toss on the street, he
said to me, `Watty, my boy, no man should gamble, because it is
dishonourable. To want money that does not belong to you is greedy. To
try to get it from your neighbour without working for it is mean. To
risk your money in the hope of increasing it by trade, or other fair
means, and so benefit yourself and others, is right; but to risk it for
nothing, with the certainty of impoverishing some one else if you win,
or injuring yourself if you lose, is foolish and unfeeling. The fact
that some one else is willing to bet with you, only proves that you have
met with one as foolish and unfeeling as yourself, and the agreement of
two unfeeling fools does not result in wisdom. You will hear it said,
my boy, that a man has a right to do what he will with his own. That is
not true. As far as the world at large is concerned, it is, indeed,
partially true, but a man may only do what God allows with what He has
lent him. He is strictly accountable to God for the spending of every
penny. He is accountable, also, to his wife and his children, in a
certain degree, ay, and to his tradesmen, if he owes them anything.
Yes, Watty, gambling for money is dishonourable, believe me!' Now,
Jack, I did, and I do believe him, from the bottom of my heart."

What Jack would have replied we cannot tell, for the conversation was
interrupted at that moment by the abrupt appearance of Captain Samson.
He led Polly by the hand. The child had an unwonted expression of
sadness on her face.

"Come into the tent. Now then, darling," said the captain; "sit on my
knee, and tell me all about it. Polly has seen something in her rambles
that has made her cry," he explained to Jack, Wilkins, and the rest of
the party who chanced to come in while he was speaking. "Let us hear
about it."

"Oh! it is _so_ sad," said Polly, whimpering. "You know that good kind
man Jacob Buckley, who lives up in Redman's Gap with his sick brother
Daniel, who is so fond of me; well, I went up to the Gap this afternoon,
when I had done cleaning up, to sit with the sick brother for a little.
I found him in great anxiety and very ill. He told me