"Just now we were speaking
of trouble. Heart-hunger is the real poetry of life--heart-hunger and
heart-ache; our pleasures are but jingling rhymes."
Jasper and his wife exchanged glances, and the old man said: "Husband
dead, ma'm?"
"Worse than that, Mr. Starbuck."
"Why, ain't that awful," Margaret declared.
Jasper studied for a few moments and then inquired: "Wan't hung, was
he?"
She shook her head, sighed and made answer: "We were divorced."
Then the old man thought to be consoling. "Well, let us hope that you
won't marry him over ag'in."
"No, his heart is black."
"There is a fountain where it may be made white," said the preacher.
Sadly she smiled at him and replied: "To that fountain he would never
go."
Old Jasper jingled and clanked the iron of his harness. "I don't know
much about fountains," said he, "but I know a good deal about men, and
I never seed one with a black heart that ever had it washed out clean.
I never knowd a scoundrel that wan't allus a scoundrel, and the Book
don't say that the Savior died for scoundrels--died for sinners.
Pages:
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44