A Carriage Telling Its Own Story.
SOME time ago two young men went to a livery stable to hire a horse and carriage. They told the keeper of the stable that they only wanted to go to a village seven miles off. When they came back, the man thought the horse looked as though he had driven much farther than that. He asked them how much farther they had been. They said they had only been to the next village. Then he opened a box that was fastened to the side of the carriage. In this box was a little thing almost like a clock. This had the power of keeping a correct account of every turn made by the wheels of the carriage. It did this by pointing with a finger to the figures on a dialplate. The man knew how many turns of the wheel it took to make a mile; and so when he saw the figure to which the finger pointed, he knew in a moment how far the carriage had been. As soon as he opened the box he saw that the carriage had traveled thirty miles, instead of fourteen. Those young men did not know that they were carrying with them a silent witness against themselves. They did not know that that little instrument was keeping a correct account of every yard of ground they went over. And just so it is with conscience. It is busy all the time; and at last it will give a correct account of all that we have done.—Sel.