MY POOR WIFE.
BY J. P. SMITH.
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CHAPTEIl XVIII.—(Continued.)
"I made cautious Inquiries, and
found to my surprise that my miser
able Identity wait quite lout. I had
given no hint, uttered no namo during
my stay there, that would lead to dis
covery. I learned that the clothes I
wore when taken up by the police
were mere rags of the coarsest, most
loathsome kind, and u bit of soiled pa
per bearing the name 'Elizabeth
Thompson’ found In the pocket of the
dress served as my certificate of bap
tism, and so Elizabeth Thompson I re
mained to all who met mo during
those seven years. When and how my
clothes were changed and stolen, as
they undoubtedly were, I don’t remem
ber. After three years I was dis
charged as cured, and, as I hud shown
some capability for nursing during an
epidemic that visited tbo asylum, a
kind nun who had charge of the Cath
olic ward offered to get me a place as
attendant In a hospital, where I re
mained some time.”
‘‘And you never thought of me—
never longed to see me, to know how
I—’’
She laughed bitterly, as she waved
«he eager Interruption aside, with a
gesture of pain.
‘‘Never thought of youl Ah, you
will never know how you filled my life,
can never understand what I felt—and
suffered! I knew you must believe me
dead, and I knew the best thing for
your happiness, your peace of mind,
was to let you remain in that belief.
I struggled to keep away from
you, to learn nothing about you;
but, when nursing a patient whom I
casually heard had lately been In do
mestic service In the neighborhood of
Colworth, I could not resist the temp
tation of questioning her. From her
I learned, Paul, that Mr. Dennys of
Colworth was married to a Miss Stop
ford, with whom he had Inherited a
large fortune, that he was very happy
and prosperous and the father of three
beautiful children.
• j nis news anayea an my aouDts,
drove every lingering spark of hope
and happiness from my future. I
begged the reverend mother who had
procured me the place in the hospital
to accept me as a novice; but she hesi
tated for some time, knowing of the
taint in my blood. However, after a
couple of years, seeing no sign of a
relapse, and getting a very favorable
opinion of my case from the asylum
doctors, I was received into the con
vent, and on application allowed to
join the mission going to New Zea
land.
"We were to have sailed next week,
and as the time drew near a terrible
restlessness came over me, a longing
so intense to breathe the air you
breathed once more, that I felt I
could never be a useful and contented
servant of Heaven unless my longing
were gratified. I appealed to the rev
erend mother, and she with her usual
goodness gave her consent. I arrived
at dusk that—that blessed night, in
tending only to say a prayer for you
and yours at the cross preserving my
memory, and then steal away as I had
come.
"At the station I saw your brother
accidentally, believing him to be you
—his features are wonderfully like
what yours once were. I found to my
utter bewilderment, and I think relief,
that my love was dead—completely
dead, that Edith’s husband was noth
ing to me.
"I wandered out, pondering the
meaning of this discovery, and saw
you stretched across my grave. At
the first sound of your voice, at the
first glance Into your worn altered
face—ah, beloved, I knew that I was
not free, and could never bo, no mat
ter what gulf divided us. I tried to
save you as I thought—to leave you;
but—but—”
CHAPTER XIX.
She stopped a little hysterically; and
he laid bis hand on her lips. Presently
the lifted It away, and »uld with eager
wlstfulnesa—
"Hut you loved her, Paul, ulster-in
law or not; you never ran explain that
away. No no; do not try! You want
ed to marry her before you met me.
1 urn sure of It. You loved her—you
wanted to marry her once," ahe re
peated monotonously,
"Yea. yes, 1 wanted to marry her
once. Listen, listen to me Helen! I
was a mere boy, home front an out
shirt station In India, where 1 never
saw a woman's face. I was lonely and
sad; ahe was kind and beautiful, and
did everything In her power to fasci
nate and enslave me. How could I
help falling in the trap? I left her In
a stale of melodramatic despair, which
1 now know waa only skin deep,
though I believed at the time ahe had
dealt me a Ufa-wound.
•*| met you. wa ware married and
apent all rnontha together abroad. Ah.
Helen, 1 did not understand until long
afterwards how happy those sla
months were, bow thoroughly they
had made you part of my Ufa. the
vary essence of my rontent and hap
pines*, for I was happy; hut blind,
ruiiMitol dolt that I was, I attributed
my contented stale uf I tag to my uwu
aeltahaeaa and generosity la marrying
you, and accepted as my due your de
votion to me Writ, wall, I waa pun
lahad, cruelly punished for II nil. I
lived W Unger ever every day. every
hour of those six month* with a yearn
ing passion, a sickening remorse that
left those lines you see on my face,
and streaking my hair with gray be
fore I had reached the prime of life.
“When wo returned she came across
my path again, and necessity compell
ed her to confide a secret to me. When
I learned by It how shamefully she
had been treated, I believed I had mis
judged her cruelly, and wan only eager
to offer reparation in my power. I
felt that no sacrifice or exertion I
could make would atone for the Irre
parable wrong done her by one of my
name, and—"
“Your brother Arthur, you mean;
he had—”
“He had forced her—an Ignorant
thoughtless girl of sixteen to marry
him secretly when she was staying
with an Invalid aunt In London.”
“Of sixteen!” she exclaimed eager
ly. "You mean that she—she was
your brother's wife before I left you—
all—all that time she was with us,
your brother’s wife?”
"Yes, yes. At first the excitement,
and adventure had pleased her, but
later on, when she came to know Ar
thur’s true character and mode of his
life—how ho had squandered his for
tune, was shunned by honest men and
respectable women when her uncle,
who had heard some rumor of a child
ish attachment between tho pair, In
formed her that, if she exchanged an
other word with Arthur, he would not
only alter hlu will and leave her pen
niless, but would expel her from his
home, her complacency changed to a
state of misery and almost unbearable
suspense, which by degrees taught her
to hate the cause of her selfish ter
ror, and made his existence a posi
tive nightmare to her.
ai last, auer a stormy interview
Arthur consented to emigrate to Aus
tralia, pledging his word to remain
there until the General should die, and
Edith’s Inheritance be quite safe.
“He sailed, hut after a time tiring
of Colonial life, broke his solemn
promise, and a month after our arriv
al at Colwortb he turned up at South
ampton, and Edith in her terror of
discovery confided her secret to me,
Implored me to help her and induce
my brother to return to Australia at
once.
“I promised to help her by every
means In my power, wrote at once to
my brother, begging him to leave; but
he refused point blank until he had
had at least one Interview with his
wife, whom, with all his faults, I be
lieve he truly loved, as his conduct
within the last seven years has amply
proved. Seeing he was not to be shak
en, we arranged that the meeting
should take place at Colworth, where
there would be less chance of detec
tion. It was in vain. I begged Edith
to let you share the secret; she was
inflexible on that point. Her motive
for that reserve at the time I thought
trivial and unreasonable; but I have
since fathomed the terrible overween
ing vanity and heartlessness of the
woman, and can now understand It
perfectly. She was jealous of you, my
darling; that I should have so quick
ly recovered from her wanton attack
was a stab her vanity resented bit
terly; she saw more clearly than I
could see myself—dull fool!—how
thoroughly happy I was, how dear you
were to me; and so she set about,
with a thousand nameless, almost In
tangible wiles and artifices, to wreck
the happiness of a man who was shel
tering and protecting her, fighting to
preserve her fortune and honor. With
broken, half-stifled hints and lnun
does, she gave me to understand that
I would have been her choice had I
spoken long ago, before my brother
tried by every means in power to wean
me from your influence, to force on
me the fact that 1 had made a tremen
dous sacrifice in marrying you, that
my chivalrous and tender bearing to
wards you awoke in her feelings that
made her own wretched fate almost
unbearable, and at the same time, I
presume, from what I've heard, that
you, my poor darling, did not escape
her
“Paul, that time when you left me
alone with her, when you went to Lon
don-”
“To meet her husband - yes?"
“She told me not at once, you
know, but by degree* It—It took
three days, Paul that you - you had
loved her passionately for years, that
you bad proposed to her a few days
before you met me, that, even after
her first refusal, you had followed Iter
about Ijondon, trying to make h«r
change her mlud, and that, falling
that, you you had rushed back to Ire
land In wrath and despair, and and
married me "
“She told you that the Jade***
“Not boldly, as I tell you now, hut
with little hints aud Jokes, half laugh
ing sighs that were almost worse**
“My poor brother’ Well, my darl
ing. the ead came You followed u*
that wight, and saw the meeting ha
tween husband and wife "
“Paul. Paul! You mean It was tori
you I saw holding her In your arutt.
Imploring her ta fly f*
"No It was Arthur We were more
alike then than now, love, and I Hid
teat him my big gray ulster, for be
complained of the cold. The the mis
take waa natural, but. ub. bow awful
la It* soaaeoueacea to you had h.a“*
"Go on—oh, go on!" she cried
breathlessly.
"When convinced of your terrible
death, brain fever set In, and for some
months I was unconscious of mr less
I recovered, rose from my sick hod
wretched In heart and body, the love,
hope, happiness of my life buried In
your grave. I loft Europe—traveled
aimlessly In Asia and America for six
years. In the meantime the old Gen
eral had died suddenly a few weeks
after your disappearance, leaving his
niece sixty thousand pounds In bard
cash, but the Hall and surrounding
property to a male relative.
"Edith married Arthur publicly al
most at once, and they settled down at
Colworth, renting the place from me.
A few months ago my brother, who Is
now a most exemplary rdember of so
ciety, wrote asking me If I would soil
my interest In It, and let them entail
it on their eldest son, as It was my
avowed Intention not to marry again.
I could not make up my mind, and
came home to settle the business.
"A few days ago at the I^anghnm I
met my brother and his wife for the
first time since their second marriage,
and ho persuaded me to try to visit
the old place again. I came down
with them, and walked across the
fields to the cross which bore your
name. When I saw the familiar
spot, the house among the trees, the
cruel mill, heard the mournful rustic
of the leaves and the ripple of the
water, all the old pain broke out as
fiercely as on the day I lost you. I
threw myself upon your grave, call
ing out your name. Your voice an
swered me, I looked up, and naw
you, Helen, standing In the moonlight
before me."
Two months after her Installation ut
Colworth, Mrs. Arthur Dennys, her
lord and master, nursery, horses, car
riages, lackeys, and maids were
storming the sleepy country station
again, enrouto for a Sydenham villa
residence, where she still bemoans the
ill luck of her eldest horn, who will
never now Inherit Colworth.
(THE END.)
A GREAT FRENCH ETCHER.
Would Hare Ilaan a Fin* Painter bat
for Color lilludnoM.
Charles Meryon—born In 1821—was
brought up to the navy, going first In
1837 to the naval school at Brest, aays
Pall Mall Gazette. As a youth, he
Balled round the world. He touched
ut Athens; touched at tb then savage
coa«ts of New Zealand; made sketches,
a few of which, In days when most of
his greater work was done, he used
as material for some of his etchings.
Art even then occupied him, and deep
ly Interested aa he soon got to be In
It, he seems to have had a notion that
It was less dignified than the profes
sion of the navy, and after awhile ho
chose deliberately the less dignified—
because it was the less dignified. He
would have us believe so, at any rate;
he wished his father to believe so. And
In 1845, having served creditably and
become a lieutenant, he resigned his
commission. A painter he could not
be. The gods, who had given him,
even in his youth, a poetic vision and
a firmness of hand, had denied him the
true sight of color; and 1 remember
seeing hanging up In the salon of M.
Hurty, who knew him, a large, Impres
sive pastel of a ship cleaving her way
through wide, deep waters, and the
sea was red and the sunset sky was
green, for Meryon was color blind. He
would have to be an engraver. He
entered the workroom of one M. Blery,
to whom In after times, as his wont
was, he engraved some verses of his
writing—appreciative verses, sincere
and unfinished—‘‘a tol, Blery, mon
mailre.” The etchings of Zeeman,the
Dutchman, gave him the desire to etch.
He copied with freedom and Interest
several of Zeeman’s neat little plates,
and addressed him with praises, on
another little copper, like the one to
Blery—"a Zeeman, polntre des mat*
lots.”
AFRAID OF THE CLASS EYE.
.Ispaueie Coolies Would Not Rsrrs tbs
Owner of It.
A year or two ago an artist from
San Francisco who wore a glass eye
came to Yokohama and established
himself In a little bungalow on the out
skirts of the city, says the Yorkvllle
Yeoman. The weather was extremely
warm, and before the stranger had be
como settled he was besieged by a
number of coolies who wanted to gat
the Job of fanning him at night. The
artists looked over the applicants and
finally selected an old man who
brought excellent recommendations
from his last employer. When It was
time to retire the artist took out his
glass eye, laid It on the stand at hts
bedside and went to bed. The old man
picked up his fan and the 8an Fran
cisco man was soon asleep. He slept
peacefully for an hour or two, when
he was awakened by a chorus of buss
ing insects about his head. He looked
about him and found that the man
whom he had hired to fan him was
gone The next morning when he went
In search of another coolie he was
amused to discover that no one would
work tor him. He was looked upon a*
a wlsard and worker of .nlracles with
whom It was unsafe to be sl»u». The
old man had goue among his friends
and told how the Californian had taken
out his eye at night and laid It on n
»tan l in order that he might watch his
•riant at night and see that he kept
hla fan in motion, The old coolie a
•lory created such excitement that the
.■Ian Francisco man was never able te
get another Japanesa to fan him after
that.
1‘aeeimlsl I tell you the world la
goiag la the devil optimist Well. |
tee you a re goiag the way of the world.
TAL MAGE’S SERMON
'A SUMMER-HOUSE TRAGEDY."
SUNDAY'S SUBJECT.
from 1IL, IS, m Fallow*: “Hat
Wb«o tlM Cblldrwa of IitmI Cried
Colo It* Lord. I ho Lord Botood Thom
Up • Deliverer. Blind, the don of derm."
Ehud was a ruler In Israel. He was
left-handed, and, what was peculiar
about the tribe of Benjamin, to which
he belonged, there were In It seven
hundred left-handed men, and, yet, so
dexterous had they all become in the
use of the left hand, that the Bible says
they could sling stones at a halr's
breadth, and not miss. Well, there
was a king by the name of Eglon, who
was an oppressor of Israel. He Im
posed upon them a most outrageous
tax. Ehud, the man of whom 1 first
spoke, had a divine commission tp de
stroy that oppressor. He came, pre
tending that ho was going to pay the
tax, and asked to see King Eglon. He
was told ho was In the Bummer-house,
the place to which the king retired
when it was too hot to sit in tho
palace. This summer-house was a
place surrounded by llowers, and trees,
and springing fountains, and warbling
birds. Ehud entered the rammer
houso and said to King Eglon that ho
had a secret errand with him. Imme
diately all the attendants were waved
out of tho royal presence. King Eglon
rises up to receive tho messenger.
Ehud, the left-handed man, puts his
left hand to his right side^pulls out a
dagger, and thrusts Eglon through un
til the haft went In after tho blade.
Eglon falls. Ehud comes forth to blow
a trumpet of liberty amidst the moun
tains of Ephraim, and a great host Is
marshaled, and proud Moab submits to
the conqueror, and Israel Is free. Bee,
O Lord, let all thine enemies perish!
So, O Lord, let all thy friends tri
umph!
I learn first from this aueject tne
power of left-handed men. There are
tome men who, by physical organiza
tion, have aa much strength in their
left hand as in their right hand, but
there ia something in the writing of
this text which implies that Ehud had
some defect in bis right hand which
compelled him to use hia left. Oh, the
power of left-handed men! Genius is
often self-obaervant, careful of Itself,
not given to much toll, burning incense
to its own aggrandizement; while
many a man, with no natural endow
ments, actually defective in physical
and mental organization, has an ear
neatneaa for the right, a patient indus
try, an all-consuming perseverance,
which achieve marvels for the king
dom of Christ. Though left-handed, a3
Ehud, they can strike down a sin as
great and imperial as Eglon.
I have Been men of wealth gathering
about them all their treasures, snuff
ing at the cause of a world lying in
wickedness, roughly ordering Lazarus
off their doorstep, sending their dogs,
not to lick his sores, but to bound him
off their premises; catching all the
pure rain of God's blessing into the
stagnant, ropy, frog-inhabited pool of
their own selfishness—right-handed
men, worse than useless—while many
a man with large heart and little
purse, has, out of his limited means,
made poverty leap for Joy, and started
an Influence that overspans the grave,
and will swing round and round the
throne of God, world without end:
Amen.
Ah, me! it is high time that you left
handed men, who have been longing
for this gift, and that eloquence, and
the other man's wealth, should take
your left hand out of your pockets.
Who made all these railroads? Who
set up all these cities? Who started
all these churches, and schools, and
asylums? Who has done the tugging,
and running, and pulling? Men of no
wonderful endownments, thousands of
them acknowledging themselves to be
left-handed, and yet they were earnest,
and yet they were determined, and yet
they were triumphant
But I do not suppose that Ehud, the
first time he took a sling in his left
hand, could throw a stone at a hair's*
breadth, aud not miss. 1 suppose it
was practice that gave him the won
derful dexterity. Oo forth to your
spheres of duty, and be not discour
aged if, in your first attempts, you
miss the mark. Ehud missed it. Take
another stone, put it carefully into the
sling, swing it around your head, take
better aim, aud the next time you will
strike the center. The first time a
mason rings bis trowel upon the brick
he does not expect to put up a perfect
wail. The first time a carpenter sends
the plane over a board, or drives a bit
through a beam, he does not expect to
irake perfect execution. The first time
a boy attempts a rhyme, he does not
expect to chime a "Lalla Itookb," or
a "Lady of the Lake.** Do not be sur
prised if, In your first efforts at doing
good, you are not very largely success
ful. Understand that usefulness Is an
art. a science, a trade. There was an
oculist performing a very difficult op
eration on the human eye. A young
doctor stood by aud said: "llow easily
you do that; It don't seem to cause you
any trouble at all." “Ah," said the old
oculist, "it la very raay now, but I
•polled a hatful of eyes to learn that.”
He not surprised if It takes some prac
tice before we rea help men to moral
eye sight, and bring them to e vision
of the Cross. Lift banded men. to the
work* Teh# the tioepel for a sling,
and faith aad repentance for the
smooth stone from the brook; take
sure elm Cod dlr*«t the weapon, aad
great Oollatks will tumble before you
When Uarlbeldl wee gulag out to
battle, be told bis troops wbat be
wanted them to do, aad after be bed
described whet he wealed them te do.
they said, “Well, general, what are
you going to give us for all this?"
‘'Well,’’ he replied, “I don’t know what
else you will get, but you will get
hunger, and cold, and wounds, and
death. How do you like It?" His men
stood before him for a little while In
silence, and then they threw up their
hands and cried, “We are the men! we
are the men!” The Lord Jesus Christ
calls you to his service. I do not
promise you an easy time In this
world. You may have persecutions,
and trials, and misrepresentations, but
afterward there comes an eternal
weight of glory, and you can bear the
wounds, and the bruises, and the mis
representations, If you can have the
reward afterward. Have you not
enough enthusiasm to cry out, “We are
the men! We are the men!” • • •
I learn from this subject that death
comes to the summer-house. Eglon
did not expect to die In that line place.
Amidst all the flower-leaves that
drifted like summer snow Into the
window; In the tinkle and dash of the
fountains; In the sound of a thousand
leaves fluting on one tree-branch; In
the cool breeze that came up to shake
feverish trouble out of the king's locks
—there was nothing that spake of
death, but there he died! In the win
ter. when the snow is a shroud, and
when the wind Is a dirge, It Is easy
to think of our mortality; but when
the weather Is pleasant, and all our
surroundings are agreeable, how diffi
cult It Is for us to appreciate the truth
that we arc mortal! And yet my text
teaches that death does sometimes
come to the summer-house. He Is
blind, and cannot see the leaves. He
Is deaf, and cannot hear the fountains.
Oh, If death would ask us for victims,
we could point him to hundreds of peo
ple who would rejoice to have him
come. Push back the door of that
hovel. Look at that little child—cold,
and sick, and hungry. It has never
heard the name of Clod but In blas
phemy. Parents Intoxicated, stagger
ing around Its straw bed. Oh, Death
there Is a mark for thee! ITp with It
Into the light! Before those little feet
stumble on life's pathway, give them
rest. • • •
Here Is a father In mld-llfe; hi*
coming home at night la the signal for
mirth. The children rush to the door,
and there are books on the evening
stand, and the hours pass away on
glad feet. There Is nothing wanting
In that home. Religion Is there, and
sacrifices on tho altar morning and
night. You look In that household
and eay, "I cannot think of anything
happier. I do not really believe the
world Is so sad a place as some peo
ple describe It to be." The scene
changes. Father is sick. The doors
must be kept shut. The death-watch
chirps dolefully on tho hearth. The
children whisper and walk softly
where once they romped. Passing tho
house late at night, you see the quick
glancing of lights from room to room.
It Is all over! Death in the summer
house!
Here Is an aged mother—aged, but
not Infirm. You think you will have
the joy of caring for her wants a good
while yet. As she goes from house
to bouse, to children and grandchil
dren, her coming Is a dropping of sun
light in the dwelling. Your children
see her coming through the lane and
they cry, "Oradmother’s come!" Care
for you has marked up her face with
many a deep wrinkle, and her back
stoops with carrying your burdens.
Home day she is very quiet. She says
she Is not sick, but something tells you
you will not much longer have a
mother. She will sit with you no more
at the table nor at the hearth. Her
soul goes out so gently you do not ex
actly know tho moment of Its going.
Fold the hands that have done so
many kindnesses for you right over
the heart that has beat with love for
you since before you were born. Let
the pilgrim rest. She Is weary. Death
in the summer-house!
Gather about us what we will of
comfort and luxury. When tho pale
messenger comes he does not etop to
look at the architecture of the house
before he comes In; nor. entering, docs
ho wait to examine the pictures we
have gathered on the wall; or, bend
ing over your pillow, ho does not stop
to see whether there Is color In the
cheek, or gentleness In the eye, or In
telligence In the brow. But what of
that? Must we stand forever mourn
ing among the graves of our dead?
No! No! The people In Bengal bring
cages of birds to the graves of their
dead, and then they open the cages,
and the birds go singing heavenward.
So I would bring to the graves of your
dead all bright thoughts and congrat
ulations. and bid them sing of victory
and redemption. I stamp on the bot
tom of the grave, and It breaks
through Into the light and the glory
of heaven. The ancients used to think
that the straits entering the Bed Sea
were very dangerous places, and they
supposed that every ship that went
through those straits would be de
stroyed, and they were In the habit
of putting on weeds of mourning for
those who bad gone on that voyage,
as though they were actually dead. Do
you know what they railed those
straits? They called them the "Gate
of Tears." I stand at the gate of
tears, through which many of your
loved ones have gone, and I want to
tell you that all are not shipwrecked
that have gone through those etralta
Into the great ocean stretching out be
yond. The sound that routes from that
other shore on atilt nights when we
are wrapped In prayer makes me thluk
that the departed are not dead. We
ere the dead we who toll, we who
weep, we who eta we are the dead.
How my heart aches tor human sor
row ! This sound of breaking hearts
that I hear all about me' this last
look of fa«ee that will never brighten
*s*ie! this last hiss of lips that never
will (peak again' this widowhood and
orphanage! oh, when will the day of
Mies he gene?
After the sharpest winter, the spring
dismounts from the shoulder of •
southern gale and puts Its warm hand
upon the earth, and In Ita palm there
comes the grass, and there come the
flowers, and God reads over the poetry
of bird and brook and bloom, and
pronounces It very good. What, my
friends. If every winter had not Its
spring, and every night Its day, and
every gloom Its glow, and every bitter
now Its sweet hereafter? If you have
been on the sea, you know, as the
ship passes in the night, there Is a
phosphorescent track left behind It;
and as the waters roll up they toss
with unimaginable splendor. Well,
across this great ocean of human
trouble Jesus walks. Ob, that In the
phosphorescent track of his feet we
might all follow and be Illumined!
There was a gentleman In a rail car
who saw in that same car three pas
sengers of very different circum
stances. The first was a manioc. Hw
was carefully guarded by his attend
ants; his mind, like a ship dismasted,
wob beating against a dark, desolate
coast, from which no help could come.
The train stopped, and the man was
taken out Into the asylum, to waste
away, perhaps, through years of
gloom. The second passenger was a
culprit. The outraged law has seized
on him. As the cars jolted, the chains
rattled. On his face were crime, de
pravity and despair. The train halt
ed, and he was taken out to the peni
tentiary, to which ho had been con
demned. There was the third passen
ger, under far different circumstances.
She was a bride. ISvery hour was as
gay as a marriage bell. Llfo glit
tered and beckoned. Her companion
was taking her to his father’s house.
The train halted. The old man was
there to welcome her to her new home,
arid bis white locks snowed down upon
her as he sealed his word with a
futher’s kiss. Quickly we fly toward
eternity. We will soon be there. Somo
leave this life condemned culprits, and
they refuse a pardon. Oh, may It be
with us, that, leaving this fleeting life
for the next, we may find our Father
ready to greet us to our new home
with him forever! That will be a mar
riage banquet. Father’s welcome!
Father’s bosom! Father’s kiss!
Heaven! Heaven!
8TOR YETTES.
Canon MacColl tells an amusing
story. "A friend of mine,” says ths
canon, “once shared the box seat with
the driver of the stage coach In York
shire, and, being a lover of horses, he
talked with the coachman about his
team, admiring one horse In particular.
'Ah,' said the coachman, ‘but that ’oss
ain’t as good ns he looks; he’s a sci
entific ’oss.’ ‘A scientific horse!’ ex
claimed my friend. ‘Wbat on earth do
you mean by that ?’ ‘I means,’ replied
Jehu, ‘a ’oss as thinks be knows a deal
more nor he does.’ ”
A soldier who served in Cuba re
lates that one night, after a march, a
few of the boys pitched their tents
close to the tent of an officer of an
other company. The boys were talk
ing quite loudly, as taps had not been
sounded. ‘‘Hush up out there!" shout
ed the officer, angrily. ‘‘Who are you?”
asked one of the boys. "I’ll show yon
who I am If I come out there!” was
the answer. The talking continued,
and out came the officer. His anger
was great, and he threatened to report
the me:, to their colonel, winding up
with, ’’Don’t you know enough to obey
an officer?” “Yes,” replied one of the
boys, “and wo should have obeyed you
if you had had shoulder-straps on
your voice.”
When the lord mayor of Dublin pre
sented to Charles Stuart Parnell from
the Irish people the Parnell tribute,
not less than $185,000, his lordship nat
urally expected to make a speech. The
lord mayor having been announced,
says Barry O’Brien in hla biography of
the Irish leader, he bowed and began:
“Mr. Parnell-” “I believe,” said
Mr. Parnell, “you have got a check for
me.” The lord mayor, somewhat sur
prised at this interruption, said, “Yes,”
and was about to recommence his
speech, when Parnell broke in: "Is it
made payable to order and crossed?”
The lord mayor again answered In the
affirmative and was resuming the dis
course, when Parnell took the check,
folded It neatly and put it in his waist
coat pocket. This ended the inter
view.
buried cities.
Many of u«, no doubt, often wonder
bow it ia possible for the sites of great
cities to be covered many feet deep
with heaps of debris and earth, so that
after two or three thousand years tha
levels of the original streets caa be
reached only by excavation.
The explanations vary with the lo
calities. The lower portions of Homo
have been filled up by the Inundations
of the Tiber; the higher by the decay,
destruction or burning of large build
ings. The ancient builders rarely took
pains to excavate deeply, even for a
large structure. When Nero rebuilt
Home be simply leveled the debris and
erected new houses ou the ruins of the
old.
Karthquaks* are responsible for
much of the destruction wrought
round th« shores of the Mediterranean,
for there was a current superstition
that an earthquake came as a special
cures on a place, and after one of
these visitations ths locality was often
totally deserted. In places of rich
soils earthworms bring to the surfnen
aa Inch or two of ground every year,
while the winds, hearing clouds of
dust, contribute tkelr share to the
work of burying ths ruins of de
serted title*.
A pawnbroker may be dissipated, bud
See always willing to tabs the pledge.
