INTERNATIONAL PRESS ASSOCIATION.
BHIA ■ 1 r.ll A1.--H in I I r. ■». »
JHldierc started in surprise; hr
not accustomed to such plain
iking.
rllndame is severe." he replied, with
sarcastic smile. "She does not ap
prove of the morals of my nation? No?
Vet parbleu! they compare not un
nj favorably with those of pious Scot
w land!”
This rebtilf rather disconcerted the
plain spoken lady, who turned up the
path Impatiently, while the Frencli
manahrugged his shoulders and looked
loftily Indignant. Marjorie, who had
watched the preceding passage at arms
with no little anxiety, not quite follow
ing the conversation, glanced irnplor
Caussldlere.
fn’t mind Miss lletherlngton," she
When the lady was out of honr
"Whnt Mr. Ixtrralne says of her
; her bark’s waur than her bite,
■. means no offense.”
Is she, my child? Oh, I re
, the eccentric old Indy whom
flailed yesterday.”
: Unrjorlo nodded; and at that rao
jpr. letrralne came down the path,
'followed by Solomon, anti met. Miss
Hfthffington, wlio began talking to
him vehemently.
“She Is not very polite," muttered
L CM&dlere; "and see, she Is already
•busing me to your guardian.”
He held out his band.
“flood bye! I shall see you, perhaps,
later in the day.”
“Perhaps. Oh, monsieur, you are not
Oflttdcd?"
“Hot at all,” replied Caussldlere,
* though the look with which ho re
garded his late antagonist rather be
lied'his words. ”J forgive her for your
sake, my child!”
V* • • • * •
Marjorie did not go to church again
M that gay. She bad a headache and
jPiPfjjjaft her room. It was altogether a
gloomy afternoon. Mr. ly.rralne, se
cretly troubled in his mind, had difll
HfiwT" ZETT . _i.u 4tw..,„i,t1, ....
■ IU YUUt/CUll --»
religious duties, and Solomon pre
red an Invincible taciturnity. So
day passed away, and evening
M'There was no evening service, for
Mr. Lorraine was too Infirm to conduct
three services In one day. After a dls
tea. to which Marjorie came down,
^^^^Bmlnlster sat reading a volume of
jons, and presently Marjorie left
V room, put on her bat, and strolled
the garden.
It was a beautiful evening, and the
noon was rising over the far-off hills.
With her head still aching wearily, the
girl wandered out upon ihe road and
M into the churchyard. She crept close
gm, to the western wall and looked for a
® tong time at one of the tombstones.
Kiwi sighing deeply, she came out
, ' ind strolled up the village.
'%): The bright weather and the fresh ulr
enticed her on and on till she came
the rural bridge above the Aiin.m
fater.
AH waB still and peaceful; not a
»und, not a breath disturbed the Sab
ith silence. She leaned over the stone
irapet and looked sadly down.
[er thoughts were wandering far
fay—flowing, flowing with the mur
jlliing stream. She had fallen into a
inking dream, when she heard a foot
^^Kp behind her. She started and ut
tSr id a low cry as she saw a dark lig
P“ approaching in the moonlight.
I_ CHAPTER XII.
HE figure advanced
rapidly, and In a
moment Marjorie
ftj) recognized her tu
1 tor.
"Monsieur Caus
sldlere!" she cried.
"Yes,” returned
, the French man
quietly, "It Is I!”
"He took her
hand In his, and
found It cold and trembling.
“1 have frightened you," he said.
"Yes, monsieur; I was startled be
cause 1 did not hear you coming, and I
seemed to be far away,"
She seemed strangely sad and pre
occupied tonight. After the French
man had Joined her she relapsed into
her former dream, she folded her arms
upon the bridge again, and Used her
uiul eye* upon the Bowing river. t'aua
tldlvre, partnktug of the mood, looked
downward, loo.
"You lova (he water, Mnrjorle?"
"Yea, It la my kith and kin."
"You bava been here tor houra, hava
you not? I (ought you at the man#*
in vain."
"I waa not here, monaieur 1 waa In
the klrkyard among the graven"
Among the graven?" returned the
frenchman, looking aailuuaiy at her
“A atrenge place for you tu wander In.
my child* It la only when we have
eeeii trouble and loat friend* that we
eeeg mob place* for me It would be
At*mg, perbapa, but fur you it la dif
ferent You are mi lining and *b-*«l I
be m happy *
"Ah, yun!" elgbed Mat forte **l am
happy enough “
"And yet you end den the dare that
•tumid ha the htlghieot by wandortng
pear lb* dea* Why did you go to the
cbu'chyard. lull* eg*?"
Why, monalaurf Tu ea* my moth
w a gta*w"
"You* moth*** grata? I thought
you did nut huuw you# mother •"
Thay any (he waa my mat hay." re
iui uru *»i <» i j' * i i", quuniy, nuu wun
found drowned in Annan Water—was
it not dreadful, monsieur?—and she
was buried yonder in the kirkyard
when I was a little child."
"And you think she was your moth
er?”
"They say so, monsieur, but I do not
think It Is true.”
"No?”
"1 have gone to her grave and stayed
by It, and tried to think they are right,
but I cannot I aye come away as I
did tonight and look at Annan Water,
and feel It more my kin.”
"Marjorie!”
"Yes, monsieur!”
“I fancy you are right, child; per
haps your mother lives.”
"Ah, you think that?"
"More; she is perhaps watching over
you, though she cannot speak. She
may reveal herself some day.”
"You believe so, monsieur?” repeated
Marjorie, her face brightening with
Joy.
"It is very probable, my child. You
are not of the canaille, Marjorie. When
I first saw you I knew that; then I
heard your story, and it Interested me.
I thought, ‘We are strangely alike—we
are like two of a country east adrift In
a foreign land, but our destinies seem
to be one. She is exiled from her kin
dred; I am exiled from my home. She
has a kindly heart and will understand
me; we must be friends, Marjorie, will
we not?"
He held out his hand, and the girl
took it.
“You are very good, monsieur,” she
answered simply.
“Then you must treat me as a friend,
indeed, little one!" he answered. “I
will take no money for your lessons. It
Is a pleasure for me to teach you, and
- and Mr. Lorraine Is not rich."
“Mr. Lorraine?" said Marjorie, open
ing her blue eyes; “it is not Mr. Lor
raine who pays for my schooling, but
Miss Hetherlngton."
"Is that bo?"
“Yes; that is so. Mr. Lorraine did
not wish to have me taught beyond my
station; but Miss Hetherlngton said J
must learn.”
Caussldlere seemed to reflect pro
foundly.
"Miss Hetherlngton Is a philanthrop
ic lady, then?”
“Ho you think so, monsieur?"
"Ho not you think so, Marjorie, since
she Is universally kind and generous?”
“Ah,” returned Marjorie, ”1 do not
think she is always generous, mon
sieur; but she Is very kind to me. Why
she has almost kept me ever since 1
was a child.”
To this the Frenchman did not reply;
he seemed somewhat disturbed; he lit
a cigar and watched Marjorie through
the clouds of smoke. Presently the
clock In the church tower struck the
hour, and Marjorie started.
"I must be walking home,” she said.
She began to move across the bridge,
the Frenchman keeping beside her.
They walked steadily onward, and
now they reached the door of the inn.
Marjorie paused and held forth her
hand.
“Good-night, monsieur,” she said,
“Good-night!—shall I not wulk with
you to the manse, little one?”
Marjorie shook her head.
“I would rather walk there alone.”
The Frenchman shrugged his shoul
ders.
"Eh bien! since you wish it I will
think you are right. Good-night, my
little friend, and au revoir.”
He took the hand which she had ex
tended toward him, raised it toward
his lips, then patted it as if he had been
patting the fingers of a child; it was
this air of fatherly friendliness which
made her trust him, and which won for
him all the sympathy of her affection
ate heart.
When Caussldlere imprinted a kiss
upon her hand she neither blushed nor
ilrpw It uwav. but nald unftiv
"Good night, monsieur, God bless
you!" at which the Frenchman kissed
her hand again, then, turning quickly,
entered the Inn.
Marjorie turned, too, feeling her kind
little heart overflowing, and walked
away down the moonlit road. Hhe had
not gone many steps when she tvaa
abruptly Joiued by a man. Hhe did not
start nor seem surprised; Indeed,
while she waa parting with the French
man she had seen John Hmberlitnd
watching her from the upposite side of
the road.
"Good-evening. Johnnie," sold Mar
jorie. qulqtly. "Why did you not come
forward to speak to Monsieur Causal
diere?"
The young man started, but made uo
answer.
' Johaale what la wrong?" she ashed
lie paused and luohed at her.
' Marjurle," be said, "tall me what
you were dulsg with that man?"
II waa SO lime lor hie reproaches,
{ her whole soul ns* in revolt
With that man?" ehe repeated, vn
j grit) l»o y-o* areas with M.iaswii
. Caweatdteie?"
"Yea. with that vllletauwe Preach
} man. he reiuraed. driven recklessly
I onward hy kte anger Why are you j
atwaye in hi* cstmpany. Mar torts as |
| non*"
Marjurle drew he reel! proudly up !
Had the Frenchman esnn her then, he i
would have Mils doubt aa In ths atusa
ahansa she came
“ I im m hm company heeauae I am
his friend," she answered, proudly.
"Yes, his friend; and as his friend I
will not hear him insulted. Good
night.”
She walked quickly away, but in a
moment he mbs again beside her.
"Marjorie, will you not listen to
| tne?”
"No, I will not,” returned the girl,
angrily. "Whatever you have to say
against Monsieur (.'aussldtere you shall
not say to me. He was right; you
are ail against him. and you are the
worst of all. Do you think It Is Just or
kind to nbuse a man simply beraust
1 he Is a stranger and unfortunate? What
j has Monsieur Caussidtere ever done to
I you that you should dislike him so
much?"
The young man stared ut her flushed
cheeks and angry eyes; then he ex
claimed:
"Marjorie, answer me! Tell me !t,'s
not possible, that you care for yon
man ?”
She flushed crimson and turned
away.
"I eare for anyone,” she answered,
evasively, "who is alone and who
wants a friend. Monsieur Caussldierc
has been very kind to me—and I am
sorry for him,"
"You are more than that. Marjorie -
but take care, for I know he is a scoun
drel.”
"How dare you say so?" returned
Marjorie. "You are a coward, Johnnie
Sutherland. If he were here you would
not speak like that."
"I would say the same to him as to
you. If he were not a scoundred he
would not entice you from your home.”
This was too much for Marjorie. She
uttered an indignant exclamation, and,
without deigning to reply, hastened
rapidly away. This time he did not
hasten after her; and almost before he
could recover from his surprise she had
entered the manse door.
CHAPTER XIII.
FTER the scene
with Marjorie on
Sunday night.Suth
erland was in a
state of despair; for
two days he walked
about in misery; on
the third day his
resolution was fixed
and he determined
to act. He went up
to the Castle and
sought an Interview with Miss Heth
erington, to whom he told of the scene
which he had had with Marjorie, of her
anger against himself, and of her con
stant meetings with the stranger. Miss
Hetherlngton listened with averted
head, und laughed grimly when be had
done.
"I see how it is,” she said; “ ’tls the
old tale; twa lads and a lassie. Hut I
dinna like the French man, Johnnie,
no more than yourself. I’ll speak
with Mr. Lorraine; maybe 'tls his work
to keep the buirnle right, though he
does his work 111. I’m thinking. You’re
a good lad, Johnnie, and as to Marjorie,
she's a short-sighted eedlct not to am
wha’s her friend.”
She spoke lightly and cheerfully; but
the moment Sutherland disappeared
both her face and manner changed.
“The lad was right,” she said. "Love
has made him keen sighted, and he has
told me the truth. Marjorie Is in dan
ger. Now Is tho time when she needs
the care o’ kind folk to keep her frae
the one false step that ruins all. Mar
jorie Annan, what shall I do for you,
my bairn?”
She stood for a time meditating;
then she looked at her watch and found
It was still early In the day; she sum
moned her old servant, ordered her car
riage, and a quarter of an hour later
was driving away toward the town of
Dumfries.
Hardly had she left when the French
man came to the castle, and, by dint of
bribing the old serving man, Sandy
Sloan, with a golden sovereign, was
permitted to view the different rooms.
(TO IIB COSTIJCCEU.)
RARE WORKS OF ART.
Treasures of the Uonrourt llrothsre
Uring Ureat Prices.
All the great pictures In the Gon
court collection have now been sold at
the Hotel Drouot and have realized
ti9(i,000 francs, or £27,840, says a Paris
letter. It Is to be noted that the broth
ers Goncourt, as related In the famous
diary, often pinched themselves in or
der to purchase pictures and art ob
jects for their collection. They would
undoubtedly be surprised If they were
alive to read the prices obtained at the
recent sale for old drawings and en
gravings which they picked up years
ago on the Paris quays and elsewhere
for a few gold or silver pieces. They
were keen dilettanti and knew good
work* of art when they saw them, but
they could hardly have rsallied that a
sketch by the younger Moreau, (or
which they paid about a dollar, would
be purchased yeara afterwards fur hun
dred* of dollars There la uow every
prospect that the Uoarourt academy
may heroine an accomplished far!, and
that the literary tegaieea, as well as the I
poor relations, may receive something
worth having out of the estate. When 1
Kdmoad de Oouncourt died It was run*
(Ideally assent by many that his
srttsllc collections would not reel las
(SMW. whereas his pictures aad on*
grat las* hlwas have already brought I*
mure thaa treble that *m»oat.
«»•*»» a tarn I'omow*
"I tea t hear a suit that taa't p*ad
tng. said a judge to a yuuag lawyer
who was seektaa advlew
I haow tl Iw l tteoiltsg. replied the
yt sag waa. ia sum* soaWooa. hut It
I* about to ps id I be ruses Hag
The ladles populaUua <4 the l Wauls
Is* 4 t'saada ia said to ba lll w 4
»b»w about Msu* see H waa Ihlka .
Use, aad the *sa>* auwbsr hsmtrtM ,
TALAU SERAION.
K> _
“CONSOLATION FOR PARENTS”
LAST SUNDAY'S SUBJECT.
From tti« Following Text: "The
KlRlileoux lx Taken Away fioin
Ihe Fxll to Come" lialali, Chapter
nil., Vrrxe i.
K all spend much
time In panegyric
of longevity. We
consider tt a great
thing to live to he
an cctogcrarlun. If
any one dies In
youth we say,
"What a pity!"
I) r. Muhlenbergh,
In old age, said
that the hymn
written In early life by his own hand,
no more expressed his sentiments
when It said:
I would not live alway.
If one be pleasantly circumstanced,
he never wants to go. William Cullen
Bryant, the great poet, at 82 years of
age, standing In my house In a festal
group, reading "Thanatopsls” without
spectacles, was just as anxious to live
as when at 18 years of age lie wrote
tliut Immortal threnody. Cato feared
at 80 years of age that he would not
live to learn Oreck. Monaldeaco, at
11C years, writing the history of his
time, fiared a collapse. Theophras
tus. writing u book at 90 years
of age, was anxious to live to com
plete It. Thurlow Weed, at about 86
years of age, found life as great a de
sirability os when he snuffed out his
first politician. Albert' Barnes, so well
prepared for the next world at 70, said
he would rather stay here. So It Is all
the way down. I suppose that the Inst
time that Methuselah was out of doors
In a storm he rfu* afraid of getting his
feet wet, lest It shorten his days. In
deed, I some time ago preached a ser
mon on the blessings of longevity, but
I now propose to preach to you about
the blessings of an abbreviated earth
ly existence. If I were an Agnostic I
would say a man Is blessed In propor
tlon to the number of years he can
stay on terra Arms, because after that
he falls off the docks, and if lie Is ever
picked out of the depths It Is only to
ue him. up in some morgue or me uni
verse to see If anybody will claim him.
If I thought God made man only to last
forty or fifty or a hundred years, and
then he was to go Into annihilation, 1
would say his chief business ought to
be to keep alive, and even In good
weather to be very cautious, and to
carry an umbrella and take overshoes,
and life preservers, and bronze armor,
and weapons of defense, lent be fall off
Into nothingness and obliteration.
lint, my friends, you are not Ag
nostics. You believe In immortality
and the eternal residence of the right
eous In heaven, and, therefore, I first
remark that an abbreviated earthly
existence Is to be desired, and Is a
blessing, because It makes one's life
work very compact.
Home men go to business at seven
o'clock in the morning and return at
• seven In the evening. Others go at
eight o’clock and return at twelve.
Others go at ten and return at four.
I have friends who are ten hours a day
In business; others who are five hours;
others who are one hour. They all do
their work well; they do their entire
work and then they return. Which
position do you think the most desir
able? You say, other things being
equal, the man who Is the shortest
time detained In business, and who
can return home the quickest, is the
mc«t blessed.
Now, my friends, why not carry that
good sense Into the subject of trans
ference from this world? If a person
die In childhood, he gets through his
work at nine o’clock In the morning.
If he die at forty-five years of age. he
gets through his work at twelve
o’clock, noon. If he die at seventy
years of age, he gets through his work
at five o’clock in the afternoon. If he
die at ninety, he has to toil all the way
on up to eleven o'clock at rilght. The
sooner we get through our work the
better. The harvest all In barrack or
nuru, me inniier iiucs uui hii uuwii in
the stubble-field, but, shouldering bis
scythe, and taking hia pitcher from
under the tree, he makes a straight
line for the old homestead. All we
want to be anxious about la to get our
work done, and well done; and the
quicker the better.
Again: There la a blenalng In an ab
breviated earthly existence in the fact
that moral dlaaater might come upon
the man If he tarried longer. Recent
ly, a man who had been promlneut In
churches, and who had been admired
for hla generosity and kindness every
where, fur forgery wss sent to state
prison lor K years Twenty year* ago
there was no more probability of that
man* committing a commercial dts
huneaty than that you will commit
commercial dishonesty. The number
of men who fall Into ruin between
fifty snd seventy years of age Is sim
ply appalling. If th-y bid died thirty
years before. It would have been bet
ter for them snd better for their fain
tiles. The shorter the voyage, th« lens
chance tor n cyclone.
There te n wteng theory abroad, that .
If use's youth he right, hla obi age
will he right. You tutghl as well soy
there ts nothing wanting for n ships
safety except In gel It fully launched
on the Atlantic Oreea I have **<«ee
Mate* ashed thuee who were echoed
a*-* •> m coltegc mare* of soger great
defaulter What hind of n bay woe
ssY* 1 What hind nf n young man
•ns he*" and they have said “Why,
he wsa s splendid fellow, I bed *<•
idea he could ever gu into »u»b as
eutmge." The fern i* the great temp
tntHMi nf life sometimes tomes hr ea
te mid life, nr In eld age
The Pest Item I .rusted the Atlantis
teens It nee ns smewth a* n milt
pond, and I thought the amt raptoine
Md the voyagers hod slandered the
md tenon, and I arete home on eaany
for' a magazine on “The Smile of the
Sea," but I never afterward could have
written that thing, for before we got
home, we got a terrible shaking up.
Tile first voyage of life may be very
smooth; the last may be a euroclydon.
Many who start life In groat prosper
ity do not end it In prosperity.
The great pressure of temptation
eomes sometimes In this direction; at
about forty-five years of age a man’s
nervous system changes, and some one
tells him he must take stimulants to
keep himself up, and he takes stimu
lants to keep himself up, until the
stimulants keep him down; or a man
has keen going along for thirty or
forty years In unsuccessful business,
and hero Is an opening where by one
dishonorable action he can lift himself
and lift his family from all financial
embarrassment. He attempts to leap
the chasm and he falls Into It.
Then It Is In after life that the grent
temptation of success oomea. If a man
makes a fortune before thirty years of
age, he generally loses It before forty.
The solid and the permanent fortunes
for the most part do not come to their
climax until In midlife, or In old age.
The most of the bank presidents have
white hair. Many of those who Tiave
been largely suceessful have been flung
of arrogance or wordllness or dissi
pation in old age. They may not have
lost their Integrity, but they have be
come so worldly and so selfish under
the Influence of large success that It Is
evident to everybody that their suc
cess bus been a temporal calamity and
an eternal damage. Concerning many
people, It may be said It seems sh If
It would have been better If they could
have embarked from this life at twen
ty or thirly years of age.
Do you know the reason why the
vast majority of people die before
thirty? It Is because they have not
the moral endurance for that which Is
beyond the thirty, and a merciful God
will not allow them to be put to the
fearful strain.
Again; There Is a blessing In an
abbreviated eurllily existence In the
fact that one Is the sooner taken off
the defensive. As soon as one Is old
enough to take cure of himself he Is
put on Ills guard. Holts on the doors
to keep out the robbers. Fire-proof
safes to keep off the (lames, Rife In
surance and (Ire Insurance against ac
cident. Receipts lest you have to pay
a debt twice. Lifeboat. against
shipwreck. Westlnghouse air-brake
against railroad collision, and hun
dreds of hands ready to overreach
you and lake all you have. Defence
against cold, defence against heat,
defence against sickness, defence
against the world’s abuse, defence all
the way down to the grave, and even
the tombstone sometimes Is not a suf
ficient barricade.
If a soldier, who has been on guard,
shivering and stung with the cold,
pacing up and down the parapet with
shouldered musket, is glad when some
one comes to relieve guard and he can
go Inside the fortress, ought not that
man to shout for Joy who can put
down his weapon of earthly defence
and go Into the king's castle? Who Is
the more fortunate, the soldier who
has to stand guard twelve hours or
the man who has to stand guard six
hours? We have common sense about
everything but religion, common sense
about everything but transference
from this world.
• » •
What, fools we all are to prefer the
circumference to the center. Wlmi a
dreadful thing it would he If we should
be suddenly ushered from this wintry
world Into the May-time orchards of
heaven, und 1* our pauperism of sin
and sorrow should be suddenly broken
up by a presentation of an emperor's
castle surrounded by parks with
springing fountains, and putbs up and
down which angels of God walk two
and two. We are like persons stand
ing on the cold steps of the national
picture gallery in London, under um
brella In the rain, afraid to go In amid
the Turners and the Titians, und the
Raphaels. I come to them and say,
"Why don’t you go Inside the gal
lery?” "Oh,” they say, "we don't
know whether we can get In.” 1 say,
"Don't you see the door Is open?”
I t;», *-iut no Iiavc Mix'll »u
long on these cold steps, we are so at
tached to them we don't like to leave.”
"Hut," 1 say, "it is so much brighter
und more beautiful In the gallery, you
bad better go In." "No," they say,
' we know exactly bow It Is out here,
but we don’t know exactly how It Is In
side.”
So we stick to this world as though
we preferred cold drlxxlc to warm habi
tation, discord to cantata, sackcloth to
royal purple as ihough we preferred
a piano with fintr or live of the keys
out of tune to an instrument fully at
tun- d as though earth and heaven n id
exchanged apparel, and earth had tak
en on brldr.l array and heaven had
gone Into deep mourning, all Its wat
ers stagnant, all Its harps broken, all
< bailees cracked at the dry wells, all
the lawns sloping to the river
plowed with graves, with dead ant-el*
under the furrow, Oh. I want to
break up my own Infatuation, and 1
want to break up your Infatuation with
this world. I tell you. If we are ready,
and If nor work la done, tbe sooner we
go tk> better, and If there are Ideas
tnga In !*>.>■«*tty I want you to know
right well there are also blessing* In
an abbreviated earthly existence.
If the spirit of this set won te (rue
hew consoled you ought to feel about
members of your family that went
early. "Taken ftom the celt to come.”
his le—h says What a fortunate »s
cape they had? How glad we might l»
feel that they will paver have to gw
through the struggles whteh we have
had to go through They had lost
time • ewugh to pst out of the stadia
sad tun up up the tpr lag Hass hum of
‘hie world sad sea how M teethed, and
•hap they elected fur a better stwpptpg
i«a.« They wets libs ship* that put
to al it lletepa, »tey tag tome tosg
enough to let passengers go up and see
the harrarks of Napoleon's captivity,
and then hoist sail for the port of their
I own native land. They only took this
J world In transitu, it Is hard for us,
but It is blessed for them.
And If the spirit of this sermon is
I true, then we ought not to go around
| sighing and groaning when another
year Is going; when we ought to go
down on ono knee by the milestone and
Hce the letters and thank Chid that we
are three hundred and slxty-fl miles
nearer home. We ought not.
to go around with morbid feel
ings about our health or about
anticipated demise. Wo ought to be
living not according to that old maxim
which I used to hear In my boyhood,
that you must live as though every day
wore the last; you must live as though
you were to live forever, for you will.
Do not bo nervous lest you have to
move out of u shanty Into an Alham
bra.
Ono Christmas day I witnessed some
thing very thrilling. W« had Just dis
tributed the fumlly presents Christmas
morning, when I heard a great cry of
distress In the hallwuy. A child from
a neighbor's house came In to say her
father was dead. It wus only three
doors off, and I think la two minutes
we were there. There lay the old
Christian aea captain,his face upturned
toward the window, as though he had
suddenly seen the headlands, and wflTh
an llluinlnuted countenance, as though
he were Just going Into harbor. The
fact waa he had already got through
the "Narrows,” In the adjoining room
were the Christmas presents, waiting
for his distribution. Long ago, one
night, when he had narrowly escaped
with his ship from being run down by
a great ocean steamer, he bad made hl»‘
peace with God, and a kinder neighbor
or u better man (halt Captain Pendle
ton you would not And this side of
heaven. Without u moment's warn
ing, the pilot of the heavenly harbor
had met him Just off the lightship.
He hud often talked to me of the
goodness of God, and especially of a
time when he waa about to enter New
York harbor with his ship from Liver
pool, and he waa suddenly Impreased
that he ought to put back to scu. Un
der the protest of the crew and under
their very threat he put back to sea,
fearing at the same time he was losing
his mind, for It did seem so unreason
able thut when they could get Into
harbor that night they should put
hack to sea. Hut they put hack to
sea, and Captain Pendleton said to his
mate, “You cull mu at ten o'clock at.
night,” At twelve o'clock ut night the
captain was aroused and said, "What
does this mean? 1 thought 1 told you
to call me ut ten o’clock, and here It
Is twelve.” “Why,” said the mate, "I
did call you at ten o’clock, and you got
up, looked around, and told me to keep
right on the same course for two hours,
und then to call you at twelve o'clock.”
Huld the captain, “Is It possible? I
have no remembrance of that.”
At twelve o'clock tho captain went
on deck, and through the rift of a cloud
the moonlight fell upon the sea and
showed him a shipwreck with one
hundred struggling passengers, lie
helped them off. Had he been any
earlier or later at that point, of the
sea he would have been of no service
to those drowning people. On board
the captain’s vessel they began to hand
together as to what they should pay
for the rescue and what they should
pay for provisions. “Ah,” says the cap
tain, “my lads, you can’t pay me any
thing: all I have on board Is yours. I
feel too greatly honored of God In hav
ing saved you to take any pay." Just
like him. He never got any pay ex
cept that of his own applauding con
science.
Oh, that the old sea captain’s God
might be my God and yours! Amid
the stormy seas of this life may we
have always some one as tenderly to
take care of us as the captain took
care of the drowning crew and the pas
sengers. And may we come into the
harbor with as little physical pain and
with us bright a hope as he hud, and
If It should happen to be u Christmas
morning, when the presents are being
distributed, and we are celebrating the
birth of Him who came to suve our
shipwrecked world, ull the better, for
what grander, brighter Christmas pres
ent could we have than heaveu?
Fitiiniler of Ifo.l u.. i
Thu nit nit- of the man who was the
actual cause of the foundation of the
Hud Cross society, which has done so
much to in it igu t u the hurrors of war, la
little known lo the peasant gent ration.
However, he is still alive, and unfor
tunately, It is said, in had circum
stances. His name Is Ituuant. aud he
was horn in Geneva In IK2S. a man of
means, he appears to have devoted a
large portion of hts wealth to wurka of
charity lu coi.u.itiou with his native
city. The admirable labors of Flor
ence Nightingale, which attracted the
attention of all Kurope, wade a strung
impression on M Ituuant, which waa
further Increased by hts own partici
pation In the war of Napoleon HI
against the Austrians In )•£• There
he witnessed wot In all its horrors,
and It resulted in hts publishing n
look on the subject which at the time
aura, ted much attention In UtU he
started on * pilgrimage, at hie own «*•
pewtc. lo *arl..o* teunirk. to »t,, „p
men Into inhtwnclng the vsriuoa gov
ernments Into a tonfsrsttce eh eh
should have for tic object the forma
iton of some mean# for the mltigattug
of tha horrors of war The recall waa
the historic conference in I tea at Ue
nevg. the welcome nf which waa tha
cogveatiog which haa made modes g
warfare comparatively humane
The greeted mag have hot tw«
cords for that* Ufa tula God end
ronetry
