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CHAPTER XIX.
TOM LORD BECOMES SOPHISTICATED.
"We think
That when, like babes with fingers burned,
We count one bitter maxim more,
Our lesson all the world has learned.
And men are wiser than before.
That when we sob o'er fancied woes.
The angels hovering overhead
Count every pitying drop that flows.
And love us for the tears we shed."
"Hullo, Brown, old man, who'd have imagined you'd come to this!" It was Tom Lord who spoke. Arrived at the Homestead the night before, he had sauntered out before breakfast to see his friend, the young parson. "I thought to find you saying morning prayers with the milkmaids. Why, that is a pretty clerical get-up of yours!"
"Funny little man!" exclaimed Frank, rising from his stool. "I cannot give you a paw."
"Dripping, as usual, with the milk of human kindness," replied Tom, grinning, as was his wont, from ear to ear, his hands in his pockets, hat on the side of his head.
"We have not come to grief yet, you see," suggested Frank.
"By Jove, no; the place looks stunning. No strikes yet, or lock-outs?"
"Only Good Fortune struck, and Care locked out,"
