Poor Jack could not sleep and dare not pray. He kept thinking of
something in the Bible about "devouring widows' houses." He could not
forget the face of an old Quaker who had met him on the road that day and
said: "Friend Jack, thy ways are crooked before the Lord!" "Maybe they
are," said Jack, "but my money is as straight as anybody's, and my farm
is a good deal nearer straight than it was before I bought the Lundy
place." Jack could not sleep, however, for thinking of the old Quaker and
his solemn words. He tried to think that his possessions were straight
anyhow. When he did sleep, he dreamed he was the young ruler that gave up
Christ for the sake of his money; then he was the rich man in torment. At
last he opened his eyes, and though the sun was shining in at the
windows, he thought things looked curious. The chairs were crooked, so
was the bedstead. The window was crooked, the whole house seemed to be
crooked. Jack got up, and found he was old and crooked himself. The cat
and dog on the crooked hearth were crooked. There was nobody in the house
but Jack. He took his crooked stick, and went out through the crooked
door, down the crooked walk, among the crooked trees, along the wall into
the crooked cemetery, where were crooked graves with the names of his
wife and children over them.
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