nest full o' howlin' young ones, might go on, I s'pose, pickin'
up grasshoppers till the cows come home, an' feedin' 'em, but they
don't. They jest poke 'em out o' the nest, an' larn 'em to fly an' pick
up their own livin'; an' that's what makes birds on 'em. They pray
mighty hard fur their daily bread, I tell ye, and the way the old birds
answer is jest to poke 'em out, and let 'em slide. I don't see many
prayin' folks, an' I don't see many folks any way; but I have a consait
that a feller can pray so much an' do so little, that he won't be
nobody. He'll jest grow weaker an' weaker all the time."

"I don't see," said Mr. Balfour, laughing, and turning to Mr. Benedict,
"but we've had the exposition of our Scripture."

The former had always delighted to hear Jim talk, and never lost an
opportunity to set him going; but he did not know that Jim's exposition
of the parable had a personal motive. Mr. Benedict knew that it had, and
was very serious over it. His nature was weak in many respects. His will
was weak; he had no combativeness; he had a wish to lean. He had been
baffled and buffeted in the world. He had gone down into the darkness,
praying all the way; and now that he had come out of it, and had so
little society; now that his young life was all behind him, and so few
earthly hopes beckoned him on, he turned with a heart morbidly religious
to what seemed to him the only source of comfort open to him. Jim had
watched him with pain. He had seen him, from day to day, spending his
hours alone, and felt that prayer formed almost the staple of his life.
He had seen him willing to work, but knew that his heart was not in it.
He was not willing to go back into the world, and assert his place among
men. The poverty, disease, and disgrace of his former life dwelt in his
memory, and he shrank from the conflicts and competitions which would be
necessary to enable him to work out better results for himself.

Jim thoroughly believed that Benedict was religiously diseased, and that
he never could become a man again until he had ceased to live so
exclusively in the spiritual world. He contrived all possible ways to
keep him employed. He put responsibility upon him. He stimulated him
with considerations of the welfare of Harry. He disturbed him in his
retirement. He contrived fatigues that would induce sound sleep. To use
his own language, he had tried to cure him of "loppin'," but with very
unsatisfactory results.

Benedict co