"Wait till we are at our journey's end. We are in a transition state
now. Haven't I listened to the old pastor many a time, and heard him
say those very words? I could not comprehend them then, but I can now.
Oh, how delightful it is to have the prospect of some change before
us!" Thus the old bell chatted to the journey's end, while the other
bells had but little to say.

Three days later they were at the end of their long ride, and placed,
one by one, in a fiery furnace. Instead of murmurs now, their groans
filled the air.

"Oh, for one moment's rest from the heat and the hammer! Oh, that we
were all at the sweet vale of St. Auburn!" said the leader of all their
sorrow.

"How sweetly would we sing!" echoed all.

"It's a terrible thing to be recast!" sighed the deepest-toned bell;
and he quivered with fear as they placed him in the furnace.

At last, after much suffering, they were pronounced perfect, and repacked
for their return.

The same tone was given to each, but the quality was finer, softer, and
richer than before. The workmen knew not why--none but the suffering
bells, and the master hand who put them into the furnace of affliction.

They were all hung once more in the tower--wiser and better bells.
Never again was heard a murmur of discontent from either because but
one tone was its mission. In the moonlight they talk among themselves,