INTERNATIONAL PRESS ASSOCIATION..
ruim'u vi i -fCnsTiM mi l I that she wiik the one to blame. He waa
It was half an hour past the appoint
ed time when she neared the trysttng
place, and she was beginning to won
der whether or not Monsieur Causel
dlere had grown weary and had gone
away, when, to her relief, he emerged
’rom some nook where he had been hid
ing and stood before her. Yes, It was
he, looking anxious and restless, but
brightening up considerably at sight of
her face.
Now that the meeting had really
?ome about, Marjorie felt somewhat
abashed at the thought of her own
boldness. .She paused In some confu
jlon, and timidly held forth her hand,
but the Frenchman strode boldly for
ward, and, the place being lonely, look
her In Ills arms.
"Marjorie, my Marjorie!” he mur
mured.
Both words and action took her so
completely by surprise, that for a mo
ment she could do nothing but tremble
passively In Ills embrace like a trem
bling, frightened child; then, recover
ing herself, she drew back, blushing
und trembling.
"Monsieur Monsieur Caussidlere!"
she cried.
The Frenchman looked at her
strangely; he took her hand, and held
It lovingly In both of his.
"Marjorie,” be said, "my little friend!
It seems now that I have you by me,
that I am born again. I have traveled
all the way from IJumiries to see you,
and you do not know why?—because,
my child, you have taught me to love
you.”
MarJorlP paused In her walk; she felt
her heart trembling painfully and her
cheeks burning like fire. She looked up
at him in helpless amazement, but she
did not speak.
"When you departed, Marjorie," con
tinued Caussldlere. affectionately clasp
ing the little hand which still lay pas
sively In his, “I felt as If all the light
and sunshine had been withdrawn from
the world, and I knew then that the
face of my little frienil had left such
un Image on my heart that I could not
shake It away. I tried to fight against
the feeling, but l could not. You have
■ made me love you. my darling, and
now I have come to ask If you will be
my wife?”
"Your wife, monsieur!"
She looked so helplessly perplexed
that the Frenchman smiled.
"Well, Marjorie,” he said, "of what
are you thinking, ma petite?"
"I was wondering, monsieur, why
you had spoken to me us you have
done.”
For a moment the man’s face cloud
ed; then the shadow passed und he
smiled again.
"Because I adore you, Marjorie,” he
said.
Again the girl was silent, and the
Frenchman pulled his mustache with
trembling fingers. Presently be Btole a
glance at her, and he saw that her face
was irradiated with a look of dreamy
pleasure. He paused before her and
regained possession of her trembling
hands.
"Marjorie,” he said, und as he spoke
httt voice ifrew verv tender and vibrat
ed through every nerve In the girl's
frame, "my little Marjorie, If you had
been left to me, 1 don’t think 1 should
ever have spoken, but when you went
away I felt as If the last chance of hap
piness bad been taken from me. So 1
said, 'I will go to niy little girl, l will
tell her of my loneliness, I will say to
her I have given her my love, and 1
will ask for hers In return.' Marjorie,
will you give It to me. my dear?”
She raised her eyes to his and an
swered softly:
"1 like you very much, monsieur."
"And you will marry me. Marjorie?"
"1—1 don't know that."
"Marjorie?"
"I mean, monsieur, I will tell Mr.
Lorraine."
"You will not! you must not!"
"Monsieur!"
"Marjorie, do you not see what 1
mean? They are all against me. every
one of them, and If they knew ttuy
would take my little girl uwuy. Mar
Jorie, listen to me. You say you love
me and you do love me I am sure of
that; therefore I wish you to promise
to marry me and say nothing to any
soul."
"To marry you In secret? Ob, l could
not do that, monsieur."
"Tlreu you do not love me. Matjo
rts?”
"Indeed, It Is not true. And Mr. lair
ralne ta like my father, aud h« loves uu
•u much. I would not do anything tu
vex or hurt him monsieur "
Kor a moment the Kreuchman's fact
was clouded, and lie cast a most unit
nuua look upon the girl, then all In s
moment again the sunshine hurst
forth
"You have a kind heart. Marjorie.'
be said ‘"It is like my little girl tu talk
in, but she ta sensible, and will listen
to me. Marjorie, don’t think I wan
to harm yon, or lead yoo to do wrong
I love yon, far too well, little one and
my only thought te how I can keep tad
cherish you all my life '
It must m>t he supported ihat V ir.
parte was altogether proof against m a
• owing an this Me believed that th*
PYgnrhmea nas incapable of gev«<t end
though at tret the proposal had gives
her a ahoch. she sown came w thing
ta >ls!e«lag to hta persuasive Sooe,
so much wiser than she,and he knew so
much more of the world; and he loved
her so much that he would never coun
sel her amiss. Majorie did not consent
to his wish, for It Is not In a moment
that we can wipe away the deeply In
stilled prejudice o fa lifetime, but she
finally promised to think It over and
see him again.
He walked with her to within a quar
ter of a mile of the clergyman's gate,
then he left her.
During the rest of that day Marjorie
went, about In a sort of dream, and It
was not until she had gone to bed at
night (let she was able to think dis
passionately of the Interview.
The next day she went to meet the
Frenchman again. The moment, he
saw her face he knew that In leaving
her to reason out the problem he had
done well.
She came forward with all the confi
dence of a child, and said:
"Monsieur Caussldlere, since I love
you, I will trust you with all my
heart,”
Oh! the days which followed; the
hours of blissful, dreamy Joy! Mar
jorie went, every duy to meet her lover
- each day found her happier than she
bad been before.
He was good and kind, and her love
for him Increased, Ills reasoning seemed
■ogicai us wii uh picasum. anil 11 was
beginning to take a Arm hold of her
accordingly.
What he might have persuaded her
to do it Is difficult to imagine, but an
event happened which for the time be
ing saved her from precipitation.
Hhe had left her lover one day, prom
ising to think over his proposition for
an immediate secret marriage, and give
him her decision on the following
morning.
Hhe walked along the road with her
head Ailed with the old and still per
plexing problem, but the moment she
reached home all such thoughts were
rudely driven from her head. She found
Mrs. Mentelth in the parlor crying bit
terly. Mr. Mentlth, pale and speech
less, stood by her side, with an open
telegram In bis hand.
"What Is the matter?" asked Mar
jorie.
Taking the telegram from the mln
lnter's unresisting grasp, she read as
follows:
"Send Marjorie home at once. Mr.
I-orralne Is dangerously ill.”
The girl sank with a low cry upon
the ground, then with an effort she rose
and cried:
"Let me go to him; let me go home!"
Not once that night did Marjorie re
merit with him on the following day.
Her one thought now wan of Mr. Ix>r
ralne. She hurriedly left for home.
CHAPTER XVII.
T wag a raw, wet,
windy night when
Marjorie arrived at
the rallwuy station
of D u m f r I e ».
Scarcely had the
train reached the
platform when the
figure of a young
man leaped upon
the footboard and
looked, in at
the carriage window, whi’le a familiar
voice addressed her by name.
She looked round, as she stood reach
ing down some parcels and a small
handbag from the net above her scat,
and recognized John Sutherland.
"They have sent me to meet you," he
said, stretching out his hand. "I have
a dog cart waiting outside the station
to drive you down."
She took the outstretched hand eag
erly. quite forgetful of the angry words
with which they had last parted, and
cried in a broken voice:
"Oh, Johnnie, Is he bettor?"
The young man's face looked grave,
indeed, us he replied:
"He is about the same. He is very
weak, uud lias been usking for you. lint
come, let me look after your luggage,
and then we ll hurry down."
There were few passengers and little
luggage by the train, and they found
Marjorie's small leather trunk standing
almost by Itself on the platform, A
porter shouldered it and following him
they passed out of the station and
found a solitary dog cart waiting with
a ragged urchin at the horse's head
A few minutes later Marjorie and Suita
ci land was driving rapidly aide by aide
| through ihe dark and rain washed
streets of the town At last they
| drew lip before the gats of Ibr manse
With su eager cry. half a sob. Mar
Jorte leaped down.
"Ill put up the horse and come
| back." rried Sutherland
Marjotte scarcely heard, hut. opening
j lb* gat*, ran in screws the garden, and
I kucaked softly a! Ike manna door.w hi. ,i
. was opened aimoat Instantly by My sit
Ike old serving woman
The moment she MV M.trjorte she
: put ksr Huger to her lips,
Maryortr stepped in and the chair wag
softly eluted klvsle led tk< way 'wtu
! the study, where n lamp was dimly
burning
' ttb. Mist* how in he now ’
The eld w-.cs.4U * hard w ild wore,
face wnn and b»».*»d etpreentug, and
her eyes sirs red wttb weeping.
“Wheesht, Miss Marjorie," she an
awered, “speak low. A wee while syne
he sank Into a bit sleep. He's awfu’
changed! I'm thinkin’ he'll no last
mony hours langer.”
"Oh, Mysle!" sobbed the girl, con
vulsively.
“Wheesht, or he may hear ye! Bide
here a minute, and I’ll creep ben and
see If he has waukened."
She stole from the room.
In a few moments she returned to
the door and beckoned. Chok
ing down her emotion Marjorie fol
lowed her without a word. They
crossed the lobby and entered the
rudely furnished bedroom where Mr.
Horraine had slept so many years, and
there, in the very bed where the little
foundling had been placed that wintry
night long ago, lay the minister hag
gard, worn and ghastly, with all the
look of a man who was sinking fast.
Ills white hair was strewn upon the
pillow, his cheeks were sunken and
ashen pale, and his dim blue eyes
looked at vacancy, while hla thin hand
Angered at the counterpane.
Marjorie crept closer, with bursting
heart, and looked upon him. As she
did so she became conscious of a move
ment at the foot of the bed. There,
kneeling in silence, was old Solomon.
He looked up with u fare almost as
gray and stony as that of his mas
ter, lull gave no other sign of recogni
tion.
The minister rocked hla heat) from
side to side and continued to pick the
coverlet, muttering to himself.
“Marjorie, Marjorie, my doo! Ay, put
the bairn In my arms she has your
own eyes, Marjorie, your own eyes o’
heaven’s blue. Solomon, my surpflce!
To-day's the christening. We’ll call
her Marlorle after hep mnthiH' A hen.
ny name! A bonny bairn! firing the
light. Solomon! She's wet anil weary.
Wo'll lay her down in the bed!"
At the mention of his name Solomon
rose like a gaunt specter, and stood
gazing desolately at his master, ills
eyes were wild und tearless, and he
shook like a reed.
Suddenly there was a low cry from
Solomon.
Marjorie started up, and at the same
moment Mr. I/irraine half raised him
self on his elbow and looked wildly
arround him.
"Who’s there?" he moaned—“Marjo
rie!"
And for the first, time his eyes
seemed fixed on hers in actual recog
nition.
"Yes, Mr. Lorraine. Oh, speak to
me!"
He did not answer, but still gazed
upon her with a beautiful smile. His
hand was still in hers, and she felt it
fluttering like a leaf. Suddenly the
smile faded into a look of sturtled won
der and divine awe. He looked at Mar
jorie, but through her, as it wera, at
something beyond.
"Marjorie!" he moaned, “I’m com
ing.”
Alas! it was to another Marjorie,
some shining presence unbet^eld of
other eyes, that he addressed that last
Joyful cry. Scarcely had It left his lips
than his jaws dropped convulsively.and
he fell back upon his pillow, dead.
* A •
Let me draw a veil over the sorrow of
that night, which was spent by poor
Marjorie in uncontrollable grief. Suth
erland, returning a little while after
the minister's breath had gone,
tried in vain to comfort her, but re
mained in or about the house to ihe
break of day. ,
Early next morning Miss Hetherlng
ton,driving up to the mange door in her
faded carriage, heard the gad news. Hho
entered in, looking grim and worn be
yond measure, and looked at the dead
man. Then she asked for Marjorie, and
learned that site had retired to her
room. As the lady returned to her
carriage she saw young Sutherland
standing at the gate.
"It's all over at last, then," she said,
"and Marjorie Annan has loct her best
friend. Try to comfort her, Johnnie, if
ye can."
"I'll do that, Miss Hetherlngton,”
cried Sutherland, eagerly.
“The old gang and the young come,"
muttered the lady. "She's alone now
in the world, but I'm her friend still.
When the funeral's o’er she must tomt
to stay awhile wi' me. Will ye tell her
that?"
"Yes, if you wish it."
"Ay. I wish it. Poor bairn! It's Iter
first puff o’ the ill wind o’ sorrow, but
when she's as old as me she'll ken there
are things in this world far waur than
death."
• * •
The few days which followed imme
diately upon the clergyman's fuueral
were the most wretched Marjorie had
ever speul. Habited in her plain blue's .
dress, she sat at home in the little pur- i
lor, watching with weary, wistful eyes
the figures of Solomon and Mysle. who,
similarly clad, moved like ghosts about
her, and all the while her thoughts]
were with the good old man, who.
after alt. had been her only protector In j
the world.
While he had been there to cheer j
and comfort her. she had never realised j
I how far these others were from her ■
j Now she knew, she was as out left j
utterly atone.
It wa* by her own wish that she re- I
! maiurd at the manse Mr*. Mml-lth
, obliged after the funeral to return to 1
b«, home ha>l offered to take Marjon*
with h>-r and M <l lieifcsrtugtog .tad
f teat a tittle note, requesting tier tu ,
; make the t'nstle her hotue Itoth these !
1 invitation* Marjorie refuted.
itu ss twttikiia l
It- >e a ted the indignity tv hat m *4. j
f you quit the elqh. tttlty ?' ktatet I
j enough, I -an tall you 1 sorted Bv* I
{ rears IS be * In led treasu-sc and than !
j they Insisted on patting in n cnah rsg.a
| nr ' Inttsii It*# fttta
|
TALMAGE’S SEKMON. I
—
•* COMINO LESSONS” LAST
SUNDAY’S SUBJECT.
From tl»e Following Tett; “<io Thou
and French the Kingdom of (JimI"—
Luke; Chapter IX., Verse DO—The
Itegnant (loupe!.
IIR Gospel Is to be
regnant over all
hearts, all circles,
all governments,
and all lands. The
kingdom of God
spoken of In the
text Is to be a uni
versal kingdom,
and Just as wide as
that will be the
realm sermonlc,
“Go thou and preach the kingdom of
God.” We hear a great deal In these
days about the coming man, and the
coming woman, and the coming time.
Home ono ought to tell of the coming
sermon. It is a simple fact that every
body knows that most of the sermons
of today do not reach the world. The
vast majority of the people of our
great cities never enter church.
The sermon of today carries along
with It the deadwood of all uges. Hun
dreds of years ago It was decided what
a F.crmon ought to be, and It Is the at
tempt of many theological seminaries
and doctors of divinity to hew the
modern pulpit utterances Into the same
old-style proportions. Booksellers
will tell you they dispose of a hundred
histories, a hundred novels, a hundred
poems, to one book of sermons. What
is f lie flnmtt unv thr» mro la thn
worst of all ages. It Is better. Some
say religion Is wearing out, when It is
wearing in. Some say there are so
many who despise the Christian reli
gion. I answer, there never was an
age when there were so many Chris
tians, or so many friends of Christian
ity as this age has—our age; as to
others a hundred to one. What is the
matter, then? It Is simply because
our sermon of today Is not suited to
the age. It Is the canal boat In an age
of locomotive and electric telegraph.
The sermon will have to be shaken out
of the old grooves or it wl'l not be
heard and It will not be read.
Before the world is converted, the
sermon will have to be converted. You
might as well go Into a modern Se
dan or Gettysburg with bows and ar
rows Instead of rifles and bombshells
and parks of artillery us to expect to
conquer this world for God by the old
styles of sermonology. Jonathan Ed
wards preached the sermons best
adapted to the age In which he lived,
but If those sermons were preached
now they would divide an audience in
to two classes; those sound asleep and
those wanting to go home.
But there Is a coming sermon—who
will preach It I have no idea; In what
part of the earth It will be born I have
no Idea; In which denomination of
Christians It will be dcllveied, I can
not guess. That coming sermon may
be born In the country xneetlne house
or on the banks of the St. Lawrence,
or the Oregon, or the Ohio, or the Tom
blgbee, or the Alabama. The person
who may deliver it may this moment
lie In a cradle under the shadow of the
Sierra Novadas, or in a New England
farmhouse, or amid the rice fields of
Southern savannas. Or this moment
Ihnrn mav ho artma vminir man In
at our theological seminaries. In the
junior, or middle, or senior class, shap
ing that weapon of power. Or there
may be coming some new baptisms of
the Holy Ghost on the churches, so
that some of us who now stand in the
watch towers of Zion, waking to the
realization of our present inefficiency,
may preach It ourselves. That coming
sermon may not be twenty ypars off.
And let us pray God that Its arrival
may be hastened, while I announce to
you what I think will he the chief char
acteristics of that sermon when It does
arrive; and 1 want to make the re
marks appropriate and suggestive to
all classes of Christian workers.
CirBt of all, I remark that the com
ing sermon will bo full of n living
Christ, In contradistinction 10 didactic
technicalities. A sermon may be full
of Christ, though hardly mentioning
his name, and a sermon may be empty
of Christ while every sentence 13 repe
titious of his titles. The world wants
a living Christ, not a Christ standing
at tho head of a formal system of the
ology, but a Christ who menus pardon
and sympathy and condolence and
brotherhood and life and heaven. A
poor man's Christ. An over-worked
man's Christ. An Invalid's Christ. A
farmer's Christ. A merchant's Christ.
An artisan's Christ. An every man's
Christ.
A symmetrical and Auely worded
system of theology Is welt enough ior
theological classes, but it has no m >»o
business In a pulpit thau have the
technical phrases of an anatomist, or !
a physician, In the sick room uf a la
tient. The world wants help, imiue- I
dials and world uplifting, and It will [
• .'mi through a sermon in which Christ
shall walk right down Into tho Im
mortal soul and take everlaeiiitg ten
■raaton of It, Ailing It as full of light ;
ta la the noonday Q> manu-nt That I
Harmon of the future will not deal wtih (
men In the threadbare lilt train ns of
Jeaua Christ In lhal coming sermon
there will he Instances of vicarious 1
•acriAc* taken right out uf every-d 11 :
life, fur there la not a da) somebody i
la not dying fur others t» the phyvt 1
-lan, saving kla dtphihem- pat tent hv I
Mrrllcisi kla own Ilfs, aa ike thi,v- j
-aptain going down with hi* vessel I
while he la gstt’ng kla passengers in
t« Iks lifeboat; as Iks grsman. ran
• timing In Ike burning building. while j
be m taking a vkild out uf a foutik
stary window as tost summer the
strong swimmer at Long Branch, cr
Cape May, or Lake George, himself
perished trying to rescue the drown
ing; as the newspaper boy not long
ago, supporting his mother for some
years, his invalid mo'ber, when of
fered by a gentleman fifty cents to get
some especial paper, and he got it and
rushed up In his anxiety to deliver It,
and was crushed under the wheels of
the train, and lay on the grass with j
only strength enough to say, "Oh,
what will become of my poor, sick
mother now?”
Vicarious suffering? The world is
full of it. An englnee- se.ld to me on
a locomotive In Dakota: "We men seem
to be coming to better appreciation
th&n we used to. Did you see that
account the other day of an engineer,
who to save his passengers, stuck to
his place, and when he was found dead
In the locomotive, which was found up
side down, he was found still smiling,
the hand on the air brake?" And as
the engineer said It to me, he put his
hand on the air brake to Illustrate Ills
meaning, and I looked at, him and
thought, "You would he Just as much
of a hero In the same crisis."
Paul preached until midnight, and j
Eutychus got sound asleep, and fell
out of a window and broke his neck.
Some would say, "Good for him." I
would rather ho sympathetic like Paul,
and resuscitate him. That accident Is
often quoted now In religious circles
ns a warning against somnolence In
church. It Is Just as much u warn
ing to ministers against prolixity. Eu
tychus was wrong In his somnolence,
hut Paul made a mistake when he kept
on until midnight. He ought to have
stopped ut 11 o'clock and there would
have been no accident. If Paul might
have gone on until too great length, let
all those of us who are now preaching
the gospel remember that there Is a
limit to religious discourse, or ought
to be, und that In our time we have
no apostolic power or miracles, Na
poleon, In an address of seven min
utes, thrilled his army and thrill's!
aslllV/JJC. Vvlll J»l. P »CI IIU/II fill Lilt- 111 * i • • P • i*
—the model sermon—was less than
eighteen minutes long at ordinary
mode of delivery. It Is not electricity
scattered all over the sky that strikes,
but electricity gathered Into a thun
derbolt and hurled; und It Is not re
ligious truths scattered over, spread
out over a vast reach of time, but re
ligious truth projected In compact
form that flashes light upon the soul
and rives Its Indifference.
When the coming sermon arrives In
this land and in the Christian church
—the sermon which is to arouse the
world and startle the nations and usher
In the kingdom—It will be a brief ser
mon. Hear It, all theological students,
all ye Just entering upon religious
work, all ye men and women who In
Sabbath schools and other departments
are toiling for Christ and the salvation
of Immortals. Brevity! Brevity! *
But I remark also that the coming
sermon of which 1 speak will be a
popular sermon. There arc those in
these times who speak of a popular ser
mon as though there must be some
thing wrong about it. As these critics
are dull themselves, the world gets the
Impression that a sermon Is good in
proportion as It is stupid. Christ was
the most popular preacher tho world
ever saw. and, considering the small
number of the world's population, had
the largest audiences ever gathered.
He never preached unywhero without
making a great sensation. People
rushed out in the wilderness to hear
him, reckless of their physical
necessities. So great was their anxiety
to hear Christ, that, taking no food
with them, they would have fainted
and starved had not Christ performed
a miracle and fed them. Whv hih ...
many people take the truth at Christ's
hands? Because they all understood it.
He Illustrated his subject by a hen an 1
her chickens, by a bushel measure, by
a handful of salt, by a bird's flight and
by a lily's aroma. All the people knew
what he meant, and they flocked to
him. And when the coming sermon of
the Christian church appears, It will
not be Princetonlan, not Rochesterlan,
not Andoverlan, not Middletonian, but
OllveUc—plain. practical, unique, earn
est, comprehensive of all the woes,
wants, sins, sorrows and necessities of
an auditory.
We hear a great deal of discussion
now all over lie land about why peo
ple do not go to church. Some say R
is because Christianity is dylug out,
and because people do not believe in
the truth of God's word, and all that.
They are false reasons. The region <a
because our sermons are not Interest
ing and practical, and sympathetic and
helpful. Some one might as well tell
the whole truth on this subject, and so
I will tell It. The sermon of the fu
ture the Gospel sermon to come forth
and shake the natlona. and lift people
out of darknesa will be a iiopular aer
mon Juat fot the simple reason that *t
will meet the wins and the wants and
the analetie* of the people There are
In all our denominations ecclesiastical
mummies, sitting around to frown
upon the fresh young pulpits of Aitirr j
lea. to try to awe them down to cry
out. Tut tut, lull Sensational!" They ■
stand today, presetting m churches
that hold a thousand people and there .
are a hundred persona present, ant I
If they «annul have the world saved In
their way it ten ui* as If they do not 1
• ant It saved at all I do not know
hnt the old way of making ministers !
of the Gospel |» better A collegiate
Mutation and an apprenticeship under
the car# and home attention of some
earnest, aged Christian minister, the
young man getting the patriarch'* 1
spirit and assisting him in hi* relig
ious eerv Ice Y’>un« Ian per* »iodf j
with old Iswvers y-uag |gt*ie *na
study tank old phvsMaae as-l | be- i i
Item It Would he a (feat help if every j
ymsng man rtwdytag fur tbe tluepsi *
mtatbtry »«*W put him veil is '.be bem# <
and heart and sympathy and under the
benediction and perpetual presence of
a Christian minister.
That sermon of the future will be an
every-day sermon, going right down In-^
to every man's life, and it will teach
him to vote, how to bargain, how to
plough, how to do any work he is call
ed to, how to wield trowel and pen and
pencil und yardstick and plane. And
It will teach women how to preside
over their households, and how to ed
ucate their children, and how to Imi
tate Miriam and Ksthor and Vashtl,
and Eunice, the mother of Timothy;
and Mary, the mother of Christ; and
those women who on Northern and
Southern battlefields were mistaken by
the wounded for angels of mercy fresh
from the throne of God,
Do yon exhort In prayer-meeting?
Ho short and be spirited. Do you teach
In Bible class? Though you have to
study every night, be interesting. Do
yon accost people on the subject of re
ligion In their homes or In public
places? Study adroitness and use com
mon sense. The most graceful, tho
most beautiful thing on earth in the re
ligion of Jesus Christ, and if you awk
wardly present it. It Is defamation. We
must do our work rapidly and we must
do It effectively. Soon our time for
work will be gone. A dying Christina
took out his watch and gave it to a
friend and raid: ‘‘Take that watch, f
have no more use for It; time Is ended
for me; eternity begins." O my friends,
when our watch has ticked away for
us for the last moment, and our clock
has struck for us the last hour, may
It he found we dl>l our work well, that
we did ft In the very best way; and
whether we preached the Gospel in
pulpits, or taught Sabbath classes, or
administered to the sick as physicians,
or bargained as merchants, or pleaded
the law as attorneys, or were busy as
artisans, or as husbandmen, or as me
chanics, or were like Martha called to
give a meal to a hungry Christ, or like
Hannah to make a coat for a prophet.
or like Deborah to rouse the courage
of some timid Harak In the 1/jrd’s pon
fllet, we did our work In such a way
that It will stand the test of the Judg
ment. And in the long procession of
the redeemed that march round the
throne, may It be found there are
many there brought to God through
our Instrumentality and In whose res
cue we are exultant. Hut. O you un
saved! wait not for that coming ser
mon. It may come after your obse
quies. It may come after the stone
cutter has chiseled our name on the
slab fifty years before. Do not wait
for a great steamer of the Cunanl or
White Star line to take you ofT tbe
wreck, but hall the first craft with
however low a mast, and however
small a bulk, and however poor a rud
der, and however weak a captain. Bet
ter a disabled schooner that cornea up
in time than a full-rigged brig that
comes up after you have sunken. In
stead of waiting for that coming ser
mon—It may be twenty, fifty years off
—take this plain Invitation of a man
who, to have given you spiritual eye
sight, would be glad to be called the
spittle by the hand of Christ put on the'
eyes of a blind man, and who would
consider the highest compliment of
this service, If at the close five hun
dred men should start from these doors
saying, "Whether he be a sinner or no.
I know not. This one thing I know,
whereas I was blind, now I see."
Swifter than shadows over the plain,
quicker than birds In their autumnal
flight, hastier than eagles to their prey,
hie you to a sympathetic Christ. Tho
orchestras of heaven have already
strung their instruments to celebrate
your rescue.
And many were tbe voices arouud the
throne;
Rejoice, for the Lord brings back his
own.
PICTURED POSTCARDS.
They Are slowly Coniine Into I'ae la
Kiiglmiil.
Illustrated postcards are slowly
creeping Into use in this country, but
enternrise and art have an nmmrtun
Ity here of Increasing and meeting a.
demand in this direction, says the Ixin
don Telegraph. Postcards with repre
sentations of Interesting local scenes
have long been popular on the conti
nent with resldt nts, and visitors readi
ly fall into the fashion. Ornamental
postcards and envelopes are constantly
used by correspondents, and postcard
collecting abroad is quite as common
as stamp collecting was In this cotm- ^
try some time ago. The cards are
fastened in an album, especially made
for the purpose, or artistically arrang
ed in groups on walls and tables. Our
Illustrated postcards will probably bo
made varied as the laates grow, aud
with art and technical achoola on every
hand there Is no reason why they
•hould not lead to the establish meat
>f a new department of industry.
There la certainly no more ready or
|deasing way by which a friend ran
live his correspondent an idea of las
ittrroundlugs. Many of the great pub
lisher* are now Issuing views of K'ag
'«h cathedrals aud ulher placon of hi*
I arte Interval and not a few pretty
hinds* ape* Smile hotels, tuo, aro us
ng * ard* with views tabulated to In
■ Ite custom* rs. |lut people ,,, thl*
mm!i> generally lire the plainest pa
S'r *in*i post. ard*. On the roetieent
h*' sale* of these lateresttag little
sorhs of srt are *mirmoua. and It ta
Hal# I an attempt to get ,M„ better
*ii! I* mad* by enterprising mans - a
.o turns lh*r# who *oeleiaptata «•
>1* Itiitdk viuiki t«| Ihv ti|«| t>t4dt4«tfM §
ataiaiu#*' bums la U.ndon who a«w
*nar« led with Uvrwaa pabltahera
ay th*> **ll a vast Du saber uf Hume
'iiuan biti postcards aktiml, aod tlnst
heir * u.lowtera greatly salon UMa
Ur>ai gifts ntahe unworthy nature*
add and •#*** nature* huwbtw
