My road has been lonely to-day. A parson came by in the afternoon,
a stranger in the neighbourhood, for he asked his way. He talked
awhile, and with kindly rebuke said it was sad to see a man of my
education brought so low, which shows how the outside appearance
may mislead the prejudiced observer. "Was it misfortune?" "Nay,
the best of good luck," I answered, gaily.

The good man with beautiful readiness sat down on a heap of stones
and bade me say on. "Read me a sermon in stone," he said, simply;
and I stayed my hand to read.

He listened with courteous intelligence.

"You hold a roadmender has a vocation?" he asked.

"As the monk or the artist, for, like both, he is universal. The
world is his home; he serves all men alike, ay, and for him the
beasts have equal honour with the men. His soul is 'bound up in
the bundle of life' with all other souls, he sees his father, his
mother, his brethren in the children of the road. For him there is
nothing unclean, nothing common; the very stones cry out that they
serve."

Parson nodded his head.

"It is all true," he said; "beautifully true. But need such a view
of life necessitate the work of roadmending? Surely all men should
be roadmenders."

O wise parson, so to read the lesson of the road!