VI.
HEN I asked Dick
Kenton to relate
his experiences, I
did not mean him
to do so at such
length. But there,
as he has written
It, and as writing
is not a labor of
love with him, let
it go.
When Madeline
Rowan found the bed, by the side of
which she had thrown herself in an
ecstasy of grief, untenanted, she knew
in a moment that she was the victim
of a deep laid plot. Being ignorant of
Uarriston's true position in the world,
she could conceive no reason for the
elaborate scheme which had been de
vised to lure her so many miles from
her home and make a prisoner of her.
'A prisoner she was. Not only was
the door locked upon her, but a slip
of paper lay on the bed. It bore these
words: “No harm Is meant you, and
in due time you will be released. Ask
no questions, make no foolish attempts
at escape, and you will be well treated.’’
Upon reading this the girl’s first
thought was one of thankfulness. She
saw at once that the reported accident
to her lover was but an Invention. The
probabilities were that Carriston was
alive, and in his usual health. Now
that she felt certain of this, she could
bear anything.
From the day on which she entered
that room, to that on which we rescued
her, Madeline was to all intents and
purposes as close a prisoner in that
lonely bouse on the hillside as she
might have been in the deepest dun
geon in the world. Threats, entreaties,
promises of bribes availed nothing. She
Vila nnrt ttnlrin/llv ♦ ♦ c*i\-♦ hn t If) Kllf
fered no absolute Ill-usage. Books,
materials for needle work, and other
little aldg to while away time were
supplied. But the only living creatures
she saw were the woman of the house
who attended to her wants, and, on one
or two occasions, the man whom Car
riston asserted he had seen In his
trance. She had suffered from the
close conflneirfent, but had always felt
certain that sooner or later her lover
would find her and effect her deliver
ance. Now that she knew he was alive
she could not be unhappy.
I did not choose to ask her why she
bad felt so certain on the above points.
I wish to add no more puzzles to the
one wlilch, to tell the truth, exercised,
even annoyed me, more than I care to
say. But I did ask her if, during her
incarceration, her Jailor had ever laid
his hand upon her.
She told me that some short time
after her arrival a stranger had gained
admittance to the house. While be was
there the man had entered her room,
held her arm, and threatened her with
violence if she made an outcry. After
hearing this, I did not pursue the sub
ject.
Carriston and Madeline were married
at the earliest possible moment, and
left England immediately after the
ceremony. A week after their depar
ture, by Carriston’s request, I forward
ed the envelope found upon our pris
oner to Mr. Ralph Carriston. With It
1 sent a few lines stating where and
under what peculiar circumstances we
had become possessed of it. 1 never
received any reply to my communica
tion, so, wild and improbable as it
seems, 1 am bound to believe that
Charles Carriston’s surmise was right
—that Madeline was decoyed away and
concealed, not from any Ill-will toward
iitipru, uui wuu a view iu im* pwai
ble baneful effect which her mysterious
disappearance might work upon her
lover’s strange and excitable organi
zation; and 1 firmly believe that, had
be not in some inexplicable way been
firmly convinced that she was alive
and faithful to him. the plot would
have been a thorough success, and
Charles (arriston would have spent the
rent of his days tn an asylum.
Both Sir Charles he succeeded to his
title shortly after his marriage—and
lutdy ('arriston are now dead, or I
• ho ild not have ventured to relate these
things concerning them. They had
twelve year* of happiness. If measured
by lime the period was but a shun one,
but 1 feel sure that in It they enjoyed
more true happiness than many others
find in the course of a protracted life
In word, thought aud deed they were
•• one Xhe died In Home. of fever,
• and her husband, without, so far a* I
knew, any particular complaint, simply
followed her.
I waa always honored with their eia
«rest friendship and dir Charles left
me Min trustee and guardian of hi*
thten sana. •» there are plenty of lives
between Maiph ('arriston aad hi* de
sire I am pleased to aa) that the U<y«
who are an dear tn me aa my eea -hit
drew aa yet show an evidence of p».
eemtag aay gifts heyaad nature
I know that my having made tuts
*tery pub)ii will cause two seta of ob
i#* tot* le fall equally lout ef me the
•batter a# fact preset*- ass who will
sat that the nhdwitea aad aubesqueat
tmptiMatweai of Masfettae »m aa ah
surd tmpeswibintv aad the wleaiit*
»sa Ilk* myeelf. who aonot dare net
hotie** that Chniiee (VtWfs. from
nr|th*( memory bur tmagtaatioe
enuid dre* a fa** aad dee* ft be per«•
Marti ten by wfcMi a ceetaJa maa rwiJ
he ideaiihe.t I am Hr from my tag
thee* may hot ht a simple natural
y.'MNtlM •! Ifie puaale but I for eae.
nave iaueu to nna it, so close uus i»ie
as I began It. by saying 1 am a narra
tor, and nothing more.
(THE END.)
! A Tale of I
! Three Lions l
, By i
< H. RIDER HAGGARD £
CHAPTER I.
Most of you boys will have heard of
Allan Quatermaln, who was one of the
party who discovered King Solomon's
mines some little time ago. and after
ward came to live In England near his
friend Sir Henry Curtis. He bad gone
back to the wilderness now. as these
hunters almost Invariably do, on one
pretext or another. They cannot en
dure civilization for very long. Its
noise and racket and the omnipresence
of broadclothed humanity proving
more trying to their nerves than the
dangers of the desert. I think that
they feel lonely here, for It Is a fact
that Is too little understood, though It
has often been stated, that there Is no
loneliness like the loneliness of crowds,
especially to those who are unaccus
tomed to them. “What Is there In the
world,” old Quatermaln would say, “so
desolate as to stand in the streets of a
great city and listen to the footsteps
falling, falling multitudinous as the
rain, and watch the white line of
faces as they hurry past, you know not
whence, you know not whither. They
come and go, their eyes meet yours
with a cold stare, for a moment their
features are written on your mind, and
then they are gone forever. You will
never see them again, they will never
see you again; they come up out of the
blackness, and presently they once
more vanish into the blackness, taking
their secrets with them. Yes, that Is
loneliness pure and undeflled; but to
one who knows and loves It, the wil
derness is not lonely, because the
anirif nf naftii'o fa ovor t H nr a tn Lomi
the wanderer company. He finds com
panionship in the rushing winds- the
sunny streams babble like Nature's
children at his feet high above him,
in the purple sunset, are domes and
minarets and palaces, such as no mor
tal man hath built, in and out of whose
flaming doors the glorious angels of
the sun do move continually. And
then there is the wild game, following
its feeding grounds In great armies,
with the spring-buek thrown out be
fore them for skirmishes; then rank
upon rank of long-faced blesbuck,
marching and wheeling like infantry;
and last the shining troops of quagga
and the fierce-eyed shaggy vllderbeeste
to take the place of the great cossack
host that hangs upon an army's flanks.
"Oh, no,” he would say, "the wilder
ness is not lonely, for, my boy, remem
ber that the farther you get from man.
the nearer you grow to God," and
though this is a saying that might well
be disputed, It is one I am sure that
anybody who has watched the sun rise
and set on the limitless deserted plains,
and seen the thunder chariots roll in
majesty across the depths of uiyfathom
able sky, will easily understand.
Well, at any rate he went back again,
and now for many months I have heard
nothing of him, and to be frank, I
greatly doubt If anybody will ever hear
of him again. I fear that the wilder
ness, that has for so many years been
a mother to him, will now also prove
his monument and the monument of
those who accompanied him, for the
quest upon which he and they have
started is a wild one indeed.
Qut while he was in England for
those three years or so between his re
turn from the successful discovery ol
the wise king's buried treasures, and
the death of his only son. I saw a great
deal of old Allan Quatermain 1 had
known him year* before In Africa, and
after he came home, whenever I had
no'hing better to do. 1 used to run up
to Yorkshire and stay with him, and
in this way I at one time and another
heard many of the incident* of his
past life, and most curious some ol
them were. No man can pass all those
| years following the rough existence ol
| an elephant hunter without meeting
with many strange adventures, anti
! one way utul another old Quatermain
has certainly seen hts share. Well
the story that | am going to tell you
III the fidluging -hen | i|> ts at
of the later of these a lt'-nm,. in
deed, |f | rememler right, it happened
In the rear U’V A' aav rate I hnnw
that II waa the only one of nia trips
upon which he leek hi* *on Marry
■ Who Is since ileal!> with him and thai
Marry waa then fnuttecn And new
for the alary which I will repeat *<
neatly at I ran tn the word* in wh*< I
hunter Quaierma c to tiM ll tl i>m<
fttffci it ito# imk inimM
tot* fi**«»*# li Yttktlir* k%* iH* ••'to
ill totMMIt |»M
(M Mlnibf to« tofvfc* tl *h
I nn e went gold m'alag a* f*tlgi»nv*
Ne*i tn the Ttaaotaa) and M aaa at
ter that that ic had the turn up ahum
Itm ilm and th* um< In* iw hn«<
j |( * Welt, It t* at w*« one ol th<
I a wee reel tittle yUttc ran exev saw
j The MW a Itself Wat pltened III a lull u
j it*si ealley wi'h meuwtaina all anew
i It and in the middle of *<*eh sreaer'
na one Mn net often §*t the * aaa e a
me tap
Well tor seme men-.ha l «lu« awe
gaily at my t'aint '-at a* lew ah •>
very eight of * pi h »r at • washing
trough became hateful to me. A hundred
times a day I cursed niy own folly for
having invested eight hundred pounds,
which was about all that 1 was worth
at the time, in this gold-mining. But
like other better people before me, I
had been bitten by the gold bug, and
now had to take the consequences. I
had bought a claim out of which a
man had made a fortune--five or six
thousand pounds at least—as I thought,
very cheap: that is, 1 had given him
five hundred pounds for it. It was all
that I had made by a very rough year's
elephant hunting beyond the ZambeBt.
I sighed deeply and prophetically when
I saw my successful friend, who was
a Yankee, sweep up the roll of the
Standard Bank notes with the lordly
air of the man who has made his for
tune, and cram them into his breeches
pockets. 'Well,’ I said to him—the
unhappy vender—‘It is a magnificent
property, and I only hope that my
luck will be as good as yours has been.’
He smiled; to my excited nerves It
seemed that he smiled ominously, as
he answered me In a peculiar Yankee
rawl: 'I guess, stranger, as I ain’t the
man to want to turn a dog's stomach
against his dinner, more especial
when there ain't no more going of the
rounds; as far as that there claim, well,
she’s been a good nigger to me; but
between you and me, stranger, speak
ing man to man now that there ain't
any filthy lucre between us to ob
sculate the features of the truth, I
guess she's about worked out!’
"I gasped; the fellow's effrontery took
the breath out of me. Only five min
utes before he had been swearing by
an nis gOuH, anil iney nppenicu
numerous and mixed, that there were
half a doxen fortunes left In the claim
and that he was only giving It up be
cause he was down-right weary of
shoveling the gold out.
" ‘Don’t look so vexed, stranger,’
went on the tormentor, perhaps there
is some shine In the old girl yet; any
way, you are a downright good fellow,
you are, therefore you will, I guess,
have a real Al, plate-glass opportunity
of working on the feelings of Dame
Fortune. Anyway, It will bring the]
muscle up upon your arm If the stuff
is uncommon still, and what Is more,
you will in the course of a year earn
a sight more than two thousand dollars
in value of experience.’
“And he went, Just in time, for In
another minute I should have gone for
him, and I saw his face no more.
“Well, I set to work on the old
claim with my boy Harry and a half a
dozen Kafirs to help me, which, see
ing that I had put nearly all my world
ly wealth Into It, was the least I could
do. And we worked, my word, we did
work—early and late we went at It—
but never a bit of gold did we see; no,
not even a nugget large enough to
make a scarf pin out of. The Ameri
can gentleman had mopped up the
whole lot and left us the sweepings.
“For three months this game went
on till at last I had paid away all or
very near all that was left of our lit
tle capital In wages and food for the
Kafirs and ourselves. When I tell you
that Boer meal was sometimes as high
as four pounds a bag, you will under
stand that it did not take long to run
through our banking account.
(TO B1 CONTISOBD.t
WHAT OUR FAIR DID.
Taught. the People the l.estun of Kn
thimluaui anil Appreciation.
It is a but a couple of years since the
vision of the White City of Chicago
ended In flame and smoke or vanished
before the rains of winter, and yet al
ready the dream Is materializing, the
I phoenix has risen from the ashes by
! I^ike Michigan to fly front city to city,
wherein the plaster and stucco of the
Columbian palaces are becoming en
during stone, says Scribner’s. The
great educational institutions have
opened the way, not only with plan,
but also with realization, with colleges
| in I tun, ctUU im* urauuiui nuiai;
j of Boston, and with the huge and mag
! niflcent pile which has arisen beside
i he national capitol. But although
some of these buildings were projected
and designed before the World’s Fair
i grew into being, the latter has taught
j t*> the people that shall visit them the
lesson of enthusiasm and appreciation;
above all, of that enthusiasm which
results in a common direction, of that
! interappreciation which results In
harmony. Harmony was the great les
son of the Columbian city; the archi
I Dels Joined hands, ami in the court of
, hi nor each of the great buildings us
sunud greater beauty and significance
from the fellowship of the ( banning
pal*.! - that surrounded it.
• fettle* VlHlMtUl It.tIU.
Kv pertinent* which are described as
,ttidfaetoi> have recently been made
. in the suburbs of Paris with a train,
drawn by a steam locomotive, running
not on rails but on an ordinary road
the train used at present consists of
only two <• r* one of whbh contains
I the locomotive machinery, together
| witn -eats fur fourteeen psseagers.
while I he other has twenty-four seats.
The engine is of siiteen horsepower
and the a«*r*n* speed I* about seven
• ties an hour Th- Ham ta able to
lul In O i lev I* only iweoty three feet
in Iwnsbi \ a eager train hat h*en
oestrus tod tor the rsmveyanre of
I ftevgh! It is bo pad by ite mv-ugor*
.Wat iratn* uf this htnd will be oh
trseively employed tn and near vines j
1 t«ac h peasant* have a beltof that If j
1 a %«# with me»h *m**h# to imads in the ,
’ j *> ** a* ifee ay>| i -avti af a *s. s. safe
it I sum lightning out ba ieews*4 hhs
; Met t.h«** that the . s*wn ta baaed an
* i te**s..» as the tost* aatvan sue a vary ■
gtsod rwfeductfee fur tarry lag away the
ete-irbliy shtwly ahd safety In otse {
t be was ad cave* af damage by ligbifeifeg
'id* fhbtthew end III null* have feeefe
1 situ h but the fewmhst af f«, lory
«hiatusta feaa wfely *1
TALM AGE’S SERMON
RUIN AND RESTORATION, LAS1
SUNDAY'S SUBJECT.
"Then Went I t'p in the Nlglit by tin
llroolc and t iewed the Wall, am
Turned Hark and Filtered by tin
Mate at the Valley”—Niem. 3:13.
DEAD city Is more
suggestive than i
living city — pasl
Rome than presenl
Rome—ruins rathei
than newly frescoed
cathedral. But th«
best time to visit a
ruin Is by moon
light. The Colise
um Is far more fas
cinating to the
traveler after sundown than before,
You may stand by daylight amid the
monastic ruins of Melrose Abbey, and
study shafted oriel, and rosetted stone
and mulllon, but they throw theit
strongest witchery by moonlight. Born*
of you remember what the enchanter
of Scotland said In the "Day of the
Dast Minstrel:’’
Wouldst thou view fair Melrose aright.
Go visit It by the pale moonlight.
Washington Irving describes the
Andalusian moonlight upon the Al
hambra ruins as amounting to an en
chantment. My text presents you
Jerusalem In ruins. The tower down.
The gates down. The walls down.
Everything down. Nehemlah on horse
back, by moonlight looking upon the
ruins. While he rides, there are some
friends on fo6t going with him, for
they do not want the many horses to
disturb the suspicious of the people.
These people do not know the secret of
Nehemlah’s heart, but they are going
as a sort of body-guard. I hear the
clicking hoofs of the horse on which
Nehemlah rides, as he guides It this
way and that, into this gate and out of
that, winding through that gate amid
me aeons or once great Jerusalem.
Now the horse comes to dead halt at
the tumbled masonry where he cannot
pass. Now he shies off at the charred
timbers. Now he comes along where
the water under the moonlight flashes
from the mouth of the brazen dragon
after which the gate was named.
Heavy-hearted Nehemiah! Riding in
and out, now by his old home deso
lated, now by the defaced Temple, now
amid the scars of the city that had
gone down under battering-ram and
conflagration. The escorting party
knows not what Nehemiah means. Is
he getting crazy? Have his own per
sonal sorrows, added to the sorrows of
the nation, unbalanced his intellect?
Still the midnight exploration goes on.
Nehemiah on horse-back rides through
the fish gate, by the tower of the
furnaces, by the king's pool, by the
dragon well, in and out, In and out,
until the midnight ride is completed,
and Nehemiah dismounts from bis
horse, and to the amazed and con
founded and incredulous body-guard,
declares the dead secret of his heart
when he says: "Come now, let us build
Jerusalem.” "What, Nehemiah, have
you any money?” "No.” “Have you
any kingly authority?” “No.” "Have
you any eloquence?” “No.” Yet that
midnight, moonlight ride of Nehemiah
resulted in the glorious rebuilding of
the city of Jerusalem. The people knew
not how the thing was to be done, but
with great enthusiasm they cried out:
“Let us rise up now and build the city.”
Some people laughed and said It could
not be done. Some people were Infuri
ate and offered physical violence, say
ing the thing should not be done. But
the workmen went right on, standing
on the wall, trowel in one hand, sword
in the other, until the work was glori
ously completed. At that very time in
Greece, Xenophon was writing a his
tory, and Plato wrfs making philosophy,
and Demosthenes was rattling his
rhetorical thunder; but all of them to
gether did not do so much for the world
as this midnight, moonlight ride of
praying, courageous, lium<!sick, close
mouthed Nehemiah.
My subject first imprcssi-B me with
the idea what an interne thing is < buich
n If,.. I (on CoIva t .v# ik.S
horse and slop Nehemiah. Why are
you risking your life h“re in the night?
Your horse will stumble over thtre
ruins and fall on you. Stop this useliss
expwuie of your life. No; Nehemiah
will not stop, lie at last tells us the
whole story. He lets us know he waa
an exile In a far distant land; he wa>
a servant, a eup-b*urer In the pulaec
of Artaxerxes lump Imamu, and one
day, while he war baud ng the eup o!
wine to the king, the king said to hitr
"What is the matter with yon? Vu;
are not sick 1 know you must hav«
seme great trouble What Is the mat'
ter with you?" Then he told the kin*
how that beloved Jerusalem war
broken down; how that his 1st hen
tomb had been dseerrated, how that
the Temp •# had been dishonored an*
defared bow tbal tbe walls were seal
teted and broken "Well." says Kia«
Arte serve* ' wbat do ywu want*
"Well," said tb* rug-bear* r N’*h*tni*h
1 want to home I want t« ns ut
tb# grave of my father I want to rw
store Ike beauty of tbe Temple 1 waa'
to rebuild I be ma*oary of the eiiy wall
Meatds* I weal passport* so tbsl I *h»
a«>t be hi ad* red tn m* Journey Ant
heebies tbal," as yui will ind tn ilu
tontevt, I want an order tb* nvvi
who Veeps your tore*! fw< |uti to muel
Mm be as I may need fur >b*» ,*br.‘4u i
Ut rite I'ilV "* llwu tong *ha'J y- ■ *•
gens '*" *abi tb* king i b- t me of *b
tenee to arranged, tn but baa* tftti
stem tag agveaiutef tsati tv* J*tu*a
k n *4 .a my test w* bn I kw n
boreebavb a tb* motnigM rtdtUi
in .ml tbe rutnw It to through th>
epee to* 1** af this even* tbal we die
e»*«f tbe a.'O.nl alt *■ brnest id Neb#
* i, t for *a«r*4 Jeiueatons. wbt*b It
all ages has been the type of the
Church of God, our Jerusalem, which
we love just as much as Nehemiah
loved ^his Jerusalem. The fact is that
you love the Church of God so much
that there is no spot on earth so sacred,
unless it be your own fireside. The
1 church has been to you so much com
fort and illumination that there is
nothing that makes you so irate as to
have It talked against. If there have
been times when you have been carried
into captivity by sickness, you longed
for the Church, our holy Jerusalem.
Just as much as Nehemiah longed for
his Jerusalem, and the fleet day you
came out you came to the house of
the Lord. When the Temple was In
ruins, like Nehemiah, you walked
around and looked at It, and In the
moonlight you stood listening If you
could not hedr the voice of the dead
organ, the psalm of the expired Sab
baths. What Jerusalem was to Nehe
miah, the Church of God Is to you.
Sceptics and Infidels may scoff at the
Church as an obsolete affair, as a relic
of the dark ages, us a convention of
goody-goody people, but all the impres
sion they have ever made on your mind
against the Church of God Is abso
lutely nothing. You would make more
sacrifices for it to-day than any other
Institution, and if It were needful yon
would die in its defence. You can take
the words of the kingly poet as he
said: "If I forgot thee, O Jerusalem,
let my right band forget her cunning."
You understand In your own experience
the pathos, the home-sickness, the
courage, the holy enthusiasm of Nehe
miah in bis midnight moonlight ride
around the ruins of his beloved Jeru
uiilom • • • *
Again. My subject gives me a speci
men of busy and triumphant sadness.
If there was any man In the world
who had a right to mope and give up
everything as lost, It was Nehemlah.
You say, "He was a cup-bearer In the
palace of Shushan, and It was a grand
place. So It was. The hall of that
palace was two hundred feet square,
and the roof hovered over thirty-six
marble pillars, each pillar sixty feet
high; and the Intense blue of the sky,
and the deep green of the forest fol
iage. and the white of the driven snow,
all bung trembling In the upholstery.
But, my friends, you know very well
that fine architecture will not put
down home-sickness. Yet Nehemlah
did not give up. Then when you see
him going among these desolated
streets, and by these dismantled tow
ers, and by the torn-up grave of bis
father, you would suppose that be
would have been disheartened, and
that be would have dismounted from
his horse and gone to his room and
said; "Woe Is me! My father’s grave
is torn up. The temple is dishonored.
The walls are broken down. I have
no money with which to rebuild. I
wish I had never been born. I wish
; I were dead." Not so says Nehemlah.
1 Although be had a grief so intense that
ft excited the commentary of bis king,
yet that penniless, expatriated Nehe
mlah rouses himself up to rebuild the
city. He gets his permission of ab
sence. He gets bis passports. He has
tens away to Jerusalem. By night on
horseback he rides through the ruins.
He overcomes the most ferocious oppo
| sltion. He arouses the piety and pa
i triotlsm of the people, and in less
j than two months, namely, flfty-two
days, Jerusalem was rebuilt. That’s
; what I call busy and triumphant sad
ness.
My friends, the whole temptation Is
with you when you have trouble, to
do just the opposite to the behavior of
Nehemlah, and that Is to give up. You
say; "1 have lost my child and can
never smile again.” You say, "I have
i lost my property, and I never can re
i pair my iuiiuiicb. i uu say, i nave
fallen into sin, and I never can start
again for a new life.” If Satan can
make you form that resolution, and
make you keep it, he has ruined you.
Trouble is not sent to crush you, but
(o arouse you, to animate you, to pro
pel you. The blacksmith does not
thrust the Iron into the forge, and then
blow away with the bellows, and then
bring the hot iron out on the anvil
and beat with stroke after stroke to
ruin the Iron, but to prepare it for a
better use. Oh that the Lord God of
Nehemiah would rouse up all broken
hearted people to rebuild. Whipped,
betrayed, ship-wrecked, imprisoned.
I’aul went right on. The Italian (nat
ty r Algerlus sits in his dungeon writ
ing a letter, anti he dates It, “From
j the dele table orchard of the Leonltue
prison ' That Is what I call trium
phant sadness. I knew a mother who
inirled her babe on Friday and on Sab
bath appeared in the house of God and
raid: "Give me a class; give m> a
Sabbath school class. I have no child
row left me and I would like to U»*
a class of Lille >hlldrva Give ute
real pot r > hildien. Give me a class ft
the back street.'' That, t say. Is beau
tiful, That Is triumphant Swdneea At
three o'clock every Sabbath afternoon,
for years, in a beautiful parlor in Phil
adelphia a parlor pictured and stat
| netted there were I rum lea to
twenty destitute chlldien af the street.
Tbeee destitute children re-wised re
ligious instruct!** eo*. ad.bg wtth
j > akss and sahdwts'bea, How do I know
that that was suing u* ter suite*
yeareT i know it in this way fhag
was the Iui home I* Philadelphia
, i where I wa« catted to vernier t a at
i jet-crew. They bad a splendid hoy, ehd
i j he had Men drowned at U«f Hran-tu
The father and norther almost idol
i j Wed the hr-y and the sob sad shrteh
i of that fa they and mother aa they
i ; bung ever tfo •• •« resound in my
sore today There seemed Ur be no ua*
l I of prat lag la* Whe* I knell down to
I I prey lbe eeHty I* the room dtewned
t ear all the prater Hus the Lord <«m
' b tied that sorrow They did wet tor •
i get their trouble It in aboard ge
| say afterneo* rate Laurel Mill, you
would find a monument with the word _
‘•Walter" inscribed upon it. and a
wreath of fresh flowers around the
name. I think there was not an hour
in twenty years, winter or summer,
when there was not a wreath of fresh
flowers around Walter's name. Hut
the Christian mother who sent those
flowers there, having no child left.
Sabbath afternoons mothered ten or
twenty of the lost ones of the street.
That is beautiful. That Is what I call
busy and triumphant sadness. Here
Is a man who has lost bia property.
He does not go to hard drinking. He
does not destroy his own life. He
comes and says, "Harness me for
Christian work. My money's gone. I
have no treasures on earth. I want
treasures in heaven. I have a voice
and a heart to serve God." You say
that that man has failed. He has not
failed—he has triumphed!
Oh, I wish I could persuade all the
people who have'any kind of trouble
never to give up. I wish they would
look at the midnight rider of the text,
and that the four hoofs of that beast
on which Nehernlah rode might cut to
pieces all your discouragements, and
hardships, and trials. Give up! Who
Is going to give up, when on the bosom
of God he can have all his troubles
bushed? Give up! Never think of
giving up. Are you borne down with
poverty? A little child was found
bolding her dead mother's band In
the darkness of a tenement house, and
some one coming In, the little girl
looked up, while holding her dead
mother's hand, and said, "Ob, 1 do
wish that God had made more light
for poor folks." My dear, God will he
your light, God will be your shelter,
God will be your borne. Are you
ourue uown witn tne oereavemenis oi
life? Is the house lonely now that the
child Is gone? Do not give up. ThlnliA..
of what the old sexton said when the
minister asked him why be put so
much care on the little graves, In the
cemetery—so much more care than on
the larger graves, and the old sexton
said, “Sir, you know that ‘of such is
the kingdom of heaven,’ and I think
the .Savior is pleased when he sees
so much white clover growing around
these little graves.” But'when the
minister pressed the old sexton for a
more satisfactory answer, the old sex
ton said, "Sir, about these larger
graves, I don’t know who are the
Lord’s saints and who are not; but
you know, sir, It is clean different with
the bairns.” Oh, If you have had that
keen, tender, indescribable sorrow that
comes from the loss of a child, do not
give up. The old sexton was right. It
Is all well with the bairns. Or, if you
have sinned, if you have sinned griev
ously—sinned until you have been cast
out by the Church, sinned until you
have been cast out by society, do not
give up. Perhaps there may be in this
house one that could truthfully utter
the lamentation of another:
Once I was pure as the snow, but 1
fell—
Fell like a snowflake, from heaven to
heh—
Fell, to be trampled as filth In the
;ir«et— V
Fell, to be scoffed at, spit on and
beat;
Praying, cursing, wishing to die,
Selling my soul to whoever would buy.
Dealing In shame for a morsel of
bread,
Hating the living and fearing the
dead.
Do not give up. One like unto the
Son of God comes to you today, say
ing, “Go and sin no more;” while he
cries out to your assailants, “Let him
that is without sin cast the first stone
at her.” Oh! there is no reason why
anyone in this house, by reason of any
trouble or sin, should give up.
Are you a foreigner, and in a strange
land? Nehemiah was an exile. Are
you penniless? Nehemiah was poor.
Are you homesick? Nebemiah was
homesick. Are you broken-hearted?
Nehemiah was broken-hearted. But
just see him in the text, riding along
the sacrlleged grave of his father, and
by the dragon well, and through the
fish gate, and by the king s pool, in
and out, in and out, the moonlight
falling on the broken masonry, which
throws a long shadow at which the
horse shies, and at the same time that
moonlight kindling up the features of
this man till you see not only, the
mark of sad reminiscence, but the cour
ACtx uml lion** tin* *»nfhiiHlHum u
who knowh that Jeruralem will he r«-^
builder). I pick you up today, out of
your rina and out of your narrow, and
I put you agalnat the warm heart of
Chrirt "The eternal Hod l» ihy ref
ute, and underneath are the everlaat*
inn arm*. '
I*reveal a trvatore.
.1 route time Harry Drown of loin
ha# been ■ arryitiK la hi# pocket • trnrla
dollar which wrote <*ue pnaeed |4|M,n
h.m The other day he tueaed It unto
a center. r*t#aiiu« the picture of •
met. With infinite pain# »,n,« one
had made the dollar into a locket and
»■ *h.ilfull» wa# the noth per«a,me.l
that when rtoned no aign of # hingn
tea Id it area
% «omm4 I brttiue
\ *iaai .hr la* ran t# , a# oa . ha# the
*#«*» **» *•••» •* *•» and «an«le*ta
, that *pt«tt tn hi# a ttea# and iraiiat
i He may imitate iht# or that »Uh
•aid to I he or igtn and rank ut ,k,
| tar town port* of the Uikta go
aa ke take# the old out (M4MA
end nork# U op Into «haiart#i k# u
, the Hoe dlMipie of the book Her K
I Marian
hi loi
leek It Ur i ah Mamie t hi 4U J,,!
I married me* l a tun at«*h n g,#, tp
| like I pkinrag “ Mamie "Ilk Ja«k’
j Ha»* *m» toma*' la. k "h# but
! *«“• father ha# S*n Y»rk World