elow, and at the same time it shall blossom
and bloom, and put forth green leaves, struggling upward,
upward,--higher, higher, still--in the golden atmosphere; its fruits
shall ripen in the beautiful sunlight of heaven, and it shall be blessed
forevermore."

"But the flowers fade, the leaves fall, the fruit drops off and decays,
and the tree is a naked, desolate object, when the storms of winter
wheel and whistle around it," said Chester, darkly.

"Not so with the TREE OF LIFE," cried the old man, with fine enthusiasm.
"Earth is but its nursery. In his own good time, the Husbandman
transplants it into the pure soil of his eternal gardens."

"And the weeds are burned in everlasting fire!"

"The _weeds_--yes; let us hope so! Let us pray that the good God will
deliver us from the weeds of all base passion, which continually spring
up in the most carefully tended soil of earth. What remembrance do we
need of this swamp-lot, when we are once out of its mud and mire?"

"I mean," said Chester, "those trees which the weeds do choke,--those
wild crabs which bring forth no good fruit,--_they_ are cast out."

"And can the good Husbandman plant them side by side with the better
trees, in his garden?" asked the clergyman. "Indeed, would they flourish
in a soil so different from that they loved here too well? Nor would
they choose that soil. If they are not prepared for the companionship of
the cultivated grafts, other and lower places will be found most
appropriate for their unsubdued natures."

Chester remained very thoughtful. By this time they had come in sight of
Mark's house,--a wood-colored building, situated on a pleasant rise of
ground, in the midst of an orchard. Mr. Royden and Mark were already
climbing the fence built about the inclosure, in the midst of which
stood the barn and stables.

XXII.

THE FIGHT AND THE VICTORY.

Father Brighthopes and his companion found Mr. Royden examining the
injured eye of the sorrel colt, which Mark held by the halter in the
yard.

"Can anything be done for it?" asked the jockey, anxiously.

Mr. Royden shook his head, with a pained expression. He loved horses
above all other domestic animals, and a fine colt like Mark's he
regarded almost as a human being. He could not, it seemed, have felt
much worse, had he witnessed the effects of a similar injury upon a
fellow-mortal.

"Spoilt, an't it?"

"Yes," said the farmer; "I see no help for it."

"I know," rejoined Ma