Roll on, gentle stars!
Shall not He, who feedeth your never-consuming fires, yet make every crooked path straight, every rough place plain? What though the tares grow amid the wheat until the harvest, shall not the great Husbandman surely winnow them out, and gather the wheat into the heavenly granary?
Roll on, gentle stars!
CHAPTER XXXV.
Mr. John Howe sat comfortably in his easy-chair, smoking his chibouk. Mrs. Howe sat opposite to him, dressed in a fashionable suit of black, with her gaiter-boots on a bronze hound.
"John?"
John smoked away as imperturbably as if he were a bachelor.
"Mr. Howe?"