CHAPTER XI.—(Continued.)
“Possession Is nine points of the
law," I answered. “I am afraid It will
be a difficult matter to eject Mr. Brans
combe unless we can produce the col
onel’s will.’'
‘‘Which we cannot?”—"Which we
cannot at present?”
“Then nothing can be done?"
"I fear nothing, excepting to apprise
the heir-at-law of the possible exist
ence of the will made in Miss Brans
combe's favor, and to warn him that It
niuy any day be brought forward.”
"Humph!" growled the rector. "And
if it should never turn up—if, as I be
gin to suspect, there has been some
deep-laid plot—some rascality of which
Master Charlie is, as usual, the head
and front, what then?”
“Then,” I replied, "Master Charlie
will remain In possession."
“And Nona will be a beggar," said
Mr. Heatbcote sadly. “Poor child, poor
child!"
Ms Miss Branscombe at Forest
Lea?" I ventured to Inquire presently.
"No; she and Miss Elmslle are with
us. Mr. Charlie’s bachelor establish
ment was hardly a fitting home for
her, and we thought It advisable that
she should leave the neighborhood at
present—at all events until we had
heard your opinion.”
"In the circumstances I should ad
vise Miss Branscombe to retire," I said
gravely.
"Yes, yes, exactly," assented the rec
tor. "In the circumstances as I now
understand them—she must of course
leave the neighborhood.”
We drove on for some time after this
In silence. I was occupied with rose
colored dreams of a future for the dis
possessed heiress—a future which had
evidently not entered Into the rector's
calculations, from the same point of
view at all events.
"If the fellow were not what he Is,
the poor colonel’s original plan would
have settled the difficulty,” muttered
Mr. Heatheote, as he touched up his
stout cob. “nut he was right—he was
right; It would be a sacrifice not to be
thought of- not to be thought of.”
As he spoke we were passing the
Forest Lea woods, which here swept
- ’ '1 • f f
• FORGIVE ME,” I CRIED. ”MISS B RANSCOMBE—NORA.”
down to the edge of green turf border
ing the road. From one of the glade
like openings two figures emerged In
front of our carriage, sauntering slow
ly along on the grass, too deeply ab
sorbed in conversation apparently to
be aware of our upproach. One—a slim
girlish figure, dressed in black gar
ments, with graceful, fair head bowed
like a Illy on Its stalk—was, as 1 knew
at once, Nona's; and It needed not the
rector's impatient exclamation and
sudden, Quick Jerk of the reins to tell
me that the slight, almost boyish figure
by her aide was that of her cousin,
Charlie Urauacombe.
In an instant the half-scotched ser
pent of Jealousy was roused again and
stung me to the heart. All my sit
doubt* and auspicious rushed back tike
k flood Fool that I had been ever to
dream of hope in the face of what I
had seen and knew.
There wm something of mockery In
the elaborate* bow. returned by a curt
nod. with which Mr. ('barlee Hum
n nib* greeted the rector, and. a* !
toad It. a gleam of triumph on the
handsome fair face in which I recog
nised the fatal heaute de dtable I had
beard described
A paaalng glint pee of Mlaa Brans
combe showed me a half startled, sur
prised glance of recognition —n swift,
shy blush In return for the grave how
with which I acknowledged here The
meeting had npeet the rector's equan
imity aa much ae It had mlae He
spoke no more until we turned In at
the rectory gate
rii4l»rKN XII
Kona was not In the drawing room
before dinner Mlaa K malts was and
rwaeleed me wtth tearful cordiality
••Ji b n end change “* she whispered,
"espec tnliy for the deaf girl Hut eh*
<n»an*t wen to f*#l II I really beliefs
should not have given Woodward
credit for having a sweetheart. Yet
there she was. keeping a twilight tryst
amongst the clematis and the honey
suckle. like any maid of eighteen. And '
If anything could have added to my ,
astonishment it was the discovery that
the swain whose arm was about her
waist, whose head was bent down over
hers, was the rector's smart, new
groom! There must, I decided.be some
thing more In the middle-aged maid
than met the eye, since she had car- '■
ried off the prize from all her young
and pretty rivals. Possibly. I thought,
with a little contempt for the passion
which had passed Mess the groom and
the lady's maid possibly 1‘iutu* had
as much to say In the matter as Cupid
Mi»s Woodward might have savings
whieh the shrewd Londoner had scent
ed, The man overlook m« pre.ently,
as. lost In the Intricacies of stable-yard
and hack entrance, 1 was trying to find
m> way hack to the garden and Uwn
"I he* your pardon air." he raid,
alellly "Thai path lead* to the
kitchen thla" opening a gate ‘ *|J|
tahr you to the aide entrance lot t the
halt "
' Thanh you." I anawered Oood
night M
U«d night Mr fort "
I kn.hed up aurprue | at the auddeg
change of tone ami manner The man a
eyea me, mine
• Widdringtoa*" I had aim at ga
claimed hut that hi* hand t u hej
mine on the gate latch and keeked Ike
ward
"You left thte In the .!<•« .art th .
af»era. »n air " he Mid handing m* a
le'ter "| picked It up a *. a | .
the trap."
I took lk. pap. r lr a k .
i aa-.d on alth ano Her g> i .* ti
Mr tnted aae In a wild *i,a« .»
Wtddftpgtt* aai vn tk. Ira k »| the
she Is glad that Charlie Is at Forest
Lea.” And then she asked the inevi
table question, which had come to be
almost an exasperating one to mo—
“Any news of the will, Mr. Fort?”
“None,” I answered; "its loss Is as
great a mystery as ever."
It was not until we were seated at
the dinner table that Nona slipped
quietly In, and took a place by Miss
Elmelle opposite to mine. There was
a consciousness In her manner, a de
precating timidity, as she met my eyes,
which confirmed my fears. She was
lost to me, and the Gordian Shot of
the Forest Lea difficulty was cut by her
hand, in a way for which I at least
ought not to have been wholly unpre
pared.
The rector was called away on some
parochial business after dinner, and I,
not caring to Join the ladies in my per
turbed condition of mind, slipped out
through the open dining room window
and wandered about the old-fashioned
rectory garden, and presently out into
the green lanes, sweet with the per
fume of late-blooming honeysuckle
and silent In the hush of evening’s
rest from toil and labor.
Love and courtship were certainly in
the air of that corner of Midshire, and
I was always condemned by some ma
licious fate to be, not an actor In the
sweet drama, but a listener and an in
truder. For the third time since my
introduction to the neighborhood I en
countered a pair of lovers.
They were leaning against a gate,
looking Into a meadow, hidden from
me until I was close upon them by a
great tangle of traveler's Joy, wreath
ing a Jutting bush of wildbrlar rose at
the corner of the hedge. It was too
late for me to.retire when I came upon
the couple, so the.e was nothing for It
but a discreet cough, which I had the
presence of mind to set tip for the
emergency. The woman turned has
tily at the sound, and to my surprise
I saw that it was Woodward, Nona’s
maid.
To my surprise, I say, foi there wa?
something in the staid settled plain
ness of the maid’s appearance which
was incongruous, to my fancy, with
lovers and love-making. Decidedly I
fcc—et— cay. with Woodward under his
influence, the secret was probably al
ready his. How could I warn Nona—
how save her?
The opportunity was not far to seek.
When I entered the drawing-room MUs
firanscoir.be was there alone, save for
Mrs. Heathcote’s sleeping presence.
The Rector’s wife lay back In her com
fortable arm chair by the fire, blissfully
asleep. Nona Bat by the tea-table In
the opposite corner, her soft-shaded
lamp the one spot of light In the room.
Her elbow rested on the table, her
cheek on her hand, her pale, sweet face
grave and ead. The eyes she raised at
my entrance fell almost immediately,
and a deep flush, painful In Its Inten
sity, spread over cheek, neck and brow.
“You will have some tea?” she said,
beginning to arrange her cups with
bands which trembled so much that
she was forced to desist. Then sho
folded them resolutely in her lap and
looked up at me, making, as 1 could
see, a strong effort at compasure, “Mr.
Fort," she went on, In almost a whis
per, “you are angry with me; and ycu
have been so kind, I am soriy that you
cannot forgive me now that every
thing has come right. And I do want
to tell you how thoroughly I under
stand and thank you for all your kind
thought for me, although I am afraid
I must have seemed ungrateful In op
posing you, and—and—all.”
I bowed. I was afraid to trust my
self to speak Jn«t then. And yet the
precious moments-were flying! Mrs,
Healhcotc stirred In her chair.
“I wish you would believe that this—
as things are now, I mean—Is the tey
happiest thing for me, as well as
right,” she added, bending towards me
in her earnestness.
‘I hope you will be very happy.” I
raid, conquered by the sweet humility
of her appeal, whilst the wo:ds seem'd
to scorch my heart.
“Im am very happy," she answered
gently. "Why do you speak In llie fti
ture? I shall never regret—never. I
could never grow to be so sordid, and
I should like to be sure that you arc
not vexed about It. We all owe so
much to your kindness In those sad
days." The rosy color flamed in her
cheeks again. "I should like to fee!
that we are friends."
"Why not?” I responded, with un
controlled bitterness. "It Is not for
me to prescribe to Miss Branscombe
what Is for her happiness. It Is to ba
presumed that she Is herself the best—
in this ease, perhaps, th? only—Judge."
The blushes faded and left her white
as a lily. Something in her look mad?
me feel as if I had struck her a blow.
“Forgive me," I cried, "Miss Brans
cembe—Nona”—as she raised her shak
ing hands and covered her face—"what
have 1 done—what have I said?"
And then—I do not know how it hap
pened; I have never been able to re
duce the next supreme moments to any
coh rent memory—but her dear head
wn» on my shoulder, my arms were
round her as I dropped upon my knees
by her side, and without a spoken word
I knew that neither Charlie Brans
com'-? rcr ary other barrier steed be
tween me and my darling. She was
mine, and mine only, and the gates of
Paradise had opened to me at last.
(To be continued.)
.Safe Side.
The unexpected humor which often
tints the grave speech of the Quaker
is well illustrated In a little story told
of an eminent young physician of
Pennsylvania at the time of the civil
war. He had determined to serve his
country and leave his practice at home,
but met with grieved remonstrance
from his mother, a sweet faced Qua
keress. "I beseech of thee not to go
to this war, my son!" she pleaded, her
soft eyes full of tears. "But I do not
go to fight, mother," said the doctor,
cheerfully. "I am going as a medical
man. Surely there Is no harm in that."
"Well, well,” said the little mother,
doubtfully, “go then. If It must be 90.”
Then suddenly a gleam of loyalty
shone through her tears, and she
ftraightened herself and looked brave
ly up into her tall son’s face. "If thee
finds thee kills more than thee cures,”
she said, demurely, "I advise thee to
go straightway over to the other side,
j my ion!"
Iliekeus' Itcat Ninel.
It Is well known among literary peo
ple that Charles Dickens considered
"David Copperfleld" the beta of hi*
novels, but occasions when he actually
express'd that opinion are so rare that
It |s worth while to recall an Incident
which happened while he was In 1‘hlla
de’.phla. Mr Chapin, father of I»r.
John It Chapin, the well known expert
on Insanity, ws« at thst time st the
head of 'he blind asylum here. Raised
type for the bllrd was Just coming
trto vogue, and. desiring to have one
of Idckrnt' books printed In that way.
Mr Chapin took advantage of sn In
Induction to the great iuivell.it to ash
him which of Ms works he considered
the best, end non toned the reiattfi
why be want'd *u know In-kens un
hesitatingly answered. "Ivavld t'cpper
field “ Philadelphia Record
« »f • »tMI«
IV I'altM. an •miiiii *urg»on of
l»ukltn »ho ill*.I in 1*43 **« r*mark
akla f«r lit* plain Jvaiing aiih kini**;f
In kt* f** kook k* ka<l many •*. k
<••!>.H4 HirlM »• Ik* following ‘Pur
Citing ln*ff* -it «It . f .r J«afhna*.
I gn « r»r tailing klm k* «ji
no mot* lit Ilian I tu. I gglana “fw
n«*iking mat I know uf *c**pt Ikai ka
j>ri -tt>ly ihoticki k* ili»l not pay ma
*r* ngh I a* I llm*, | gitia**."
t f ik* non ill • aniiital ytald of ytli*
Sow iwwggslMM gnllwa* Ik* VahM (
• tlHa pro4o««a ana kail.
'TALMAGFS 8EBM0N.
"THE IVORY PALACES." LAST
SUNDAY’S SUBJECT.
_____
’’All the (larnirnt* Smrll of Myrrh, ami
Alori, ami Ca**la, Oul of the Ivory
ralaor*’’—front Hit Hook of I’wliut,
Chapter ll, Irrtt A.
(Copyright IK'S by Loula Klopxch.)
Among the grand adornments of the
city of Purls is the Church of Notre
Dame, with its great towers and elab
orate rose windows, and sculpturing of
the last Judgment, with the trumpeting
angels and rising dead; its battlements
of quatre-foil; its sacristy, with ribbed
ceiling and statues of saints. But there
was nothing in all that building which
more vividly appealed to my plain re
publican tastes than the costly vest
ments which lay in oaken presses—
robes that had been embroidered with
gold, and been worn by popes and arch
bishops on great occasions. There was
a robe that had been worn by Pius
VII. at the crowning of the first Na
poleon. There was also a vestment
that had been worn at the baptism of
Napoleon II. As our guide opened the
oaken presses, and brought out these
vestments of fabulous cost, and lifted
them up, the fragrance of the pungent
aromatics In which they had been pre
served filled the place with a sweet
ness that was almost oppressive. Noth
ing that had been done in stone more
vividly impressed me than these things
that had been in cloth, and embroidery
and perfume. But today I open the
drawer of this text, and I look upon
the kingly robes of Christ and as 1 lift
them, flashing with eternal Jewels, the
whole house is filled with the aroma of
these garments, which "t-mell of
myrrh, and aloes, and cassia, out of
the ivory palaces.”
In my text the king steps forth. Ills
robes rustle and blaze as he advances.
His pomp and power and glory over
master the spectator. More brilliant
is he than Queen Vashti, moving amid
the Persian princes; than Marie An
I tolnette, on the day when Louis XVI.
! put upon her the necklace of 800 dia
; monds; than Anne Boleyn, the day
I when Henry VIII. welcomed her to his
palace—all beauty and all pomp for
gotten while we stan 1 in the presence
of this imperial glory, king of Zion,
king of earth, king of heaven, king
forever! His garments not worn out,
not dust-bedraggled; but radiant and
Jeweled and redolent. It seems as If
they must have been pressed a hundred
years amid the flowers of heaven. The
wardrobes from which they have been
taken must have been sweet with clus
ters of camphire,ar.d frankincense, and
all manner of precious wood. Do you
not inhale the odors? Ay, ay, “They
smell of myrrh, and aloes, and cassia,
out of the ivory palaces.”
Your first curiosity Is to know why
the robes of Christ are odorous with
myrrh. This was a bright-leafed Abys
sinian plant. It was trifoliated. The
Greeks, Egyptians, Homans and Jews
bought and sold It at a high price. The
first present that was ever given to
Christ was a sprig of myrrh thrown on
his infantile bed In Bethlehem, and the
last gift that Christ ever had was
myrrh pressed into the cup of his cru
cifixion. The natives would take a
stone and bruise the tree, and then
it would exude a gum that would satu
rate all the ground beneath. This gum
was used for purposes of merchandise.
One piece of it, no larger than a chest
nut, would whelm a whole room with
odors. It was put in closets, in chests,
in drawers, in rooms and its perfume
adhered almost interminably to any
thing that was anywhere near it. So
when in my text I read that Christ’s
garments smell of myrrh, I Immediate
ly conclude the exquisite sweetness of
Jesus.
1 know that to many he is only like
any historical person; another John
Howard; another philanthropic Ober
llu; another Confucius; a grand sub
ject for a painting, a heroic theme for
a poem; a beautiful form for a statue;
but to those who have heard his voice,
and felt his pardon, and received his
benediction, he Is music and light, and
warmth, and thrill, and eternal fra
grance-sweet as a friend sticking to
you when all else betray; lifting you
up while others try to push you down;
not so much like morning-glories, that
bloom only when the sun Is coming up,
uor like “fotir-o'clocks," that bloom
only when the sun Is going down, but
like myrrh, perpetually aromatic—the
same morning, noou and night; yes
terday. today, forever. It seems as if
we cannot wear him out. We put on
him all our burdens, and atttict him
with all our griefs, and set hint fore
most iu all our battle*, and yet ha Is
ready to lift, and to sympathise and to
help. We have so Imposed upon him
that one would think Iu sternal atfronr
he would quit our soul, and yet today .
he address*# us with the >am* tender
ness. dawns upon us with the same j
smile, pltlea u» with the tame tom- )
passion.
Tk»ro is bo it sin** III*- ttia for us. It
la B>or« lim -r,»l t iu CtMir’i, tuors
musical than Bitllinttk'i, mors coo
qusr n* thso i'harl»-ms*n#B. iu rs s!o
<jumt ikon Cissro's. it tkrok* svitk oli
Ilf* It nv* po «itk oil polkas. It
•toons with oil polo It etonp* *uk all
#.>n«|**4 *nai»n It br*ath«s ottk all
parfunt* Who Ilk* Jssus to »*t a
broken boas, to pity a koto*its* or
pkaa. to aorta a slsk man. to ink* a 1
printi*»t back slibai any n«l>il»i
to ill-tmio* o rtwrirti «H pwasu-oi
•Ilk irttM to auk* o h>«m»o onto
ito«l not of Iks b>nt *>■ Ma, to snick
Ik* tsors of M«*s *wrr*« ia a
lackrrmatory tkat skull «***t bs
krokoo* Wko ba* nick aa •>* to to
nor asml. to*k a tip to kts* aoay no
| surra*. sock a kua«i to snatch os util
j of tk* ftr* to* k o foo| tw trampis oar
, sksMsiaa, ink i koart to stout** ai<
cur necessities? I struggle for seme
metaphor with which to express him;
he is not like the bursting forth of a
full orchestra; that is too loud. He Is
not like the sea when lashed to rage
by the tempest; (hat is too boisterous,
lie Is not like the mountain, Its brow
wreathed with the lightnings; that Is
too solitary. Give us a softer type, a
gentler comparison. We have seemed
to see him with otir eyes, and to hear
him with our ears, and to touch him
with our hands. Oh, that today he
might appear to some other one of our
five senses! Ay, the nostril shall dis
cover his presence. He comes upon us
like spice gales from heaven. Yea, his
garments smell of lasting and all-per
vasive myrrh.
Would that you all knew his sweet
ness! how soon you would turn from
ail other attractions! If the philoso
pher leaped out cf his bath In a frenzy
of joy, and clapped his bnnds ana
rushed through the Btreets, because he
had found the solution of a mathemat
leal problem, how will you feel leap
ing from the fountain of a savior's
mercy and pardon, washed clean and
made white as snow, when the question
nas been solved: ‘ How can my soul
oe saved?" Naked, frost-bitten, storm
lashed soul, let Jesus this hour throw
arcund thee the "garments that smell
of myrrh, and aloes, and cassia out of
ivory palaces.”
Your second curiosity is to know
why the robes of Jesus are odorous
with aloes. There Is some difference
of opinion about where these aloes
grow, what is the color of the flower,
what is the particular appearance of
the herb. Suffice it for you and me to
know that aloes mean bitterness the
world over, and when Christ comes
with garments bearing that particular
odor, they suggest to me the bitterness
of a Savior's sufferings, Were there
ever such nights as Jesus lived through
—nights on the mountains, nights on
the sea, nights in the desert? Who
ever had such a hard reception as
Jesus had? A hostelry the first, an un
just trial in oyer and terminer another,
a foul-mouthed, yelling mob the last.
Was there a space on his back as wide
as your two fingers where he was not
whipped? Was there a space on his
brow an inch squnre where he was not
cut of the briers? When the spike
struck at the instep, did it not go clear
through to the hollow of the foot?
Ob, long deep, bitter pilgrimage!
Aloes! aloes!
According to my text, he come3 "out
of the ivory palaces.” You know, or,
if you do not kr.ow, I will tell you now,
that some of the palaces of olden time
were adorned with ivory, Ahab and Sol
omon had their homes furnished with
it. The tusks of African and Asiatic
elephants were twisted into all man
ners of shapes, and there were stairs
of ivory, and chairs of ivory, and ta
bles of Ivory, and floors of ivory, and
pillars of ivory, and windows of ivory,
and fountains that dropped Into basins
of ivory, and rooms that had ceilings
of ivory. Oh, white and overmastering
beauty! Green tree branches sweep
ing the white curbs. Tapestry trailing
the snowy floors. Brackets of light
flashing on the lustrous surroundings.
Silvery music rippling on the beach of
the arches. The mere thought of It al
most stuns my brain, and you say:
“Ch, if I could only have walked over
eurh floors! If I could have thrown
myself into such a chair! If I could
h-vc heard the drip and dash of those
fountains!” You shall have something
better than that If you only let Christ
introduce you. From that place he
came, and to that place he proposes to
transport you, for his "garments smell
of myrrh, and aloes, and cassia, out of
the ivory palaces.” What a place
heaven must be: The Tuileries of the
French, the Windsor castle of the Eng
lish. the Spanish Alhambra, the Rus
sian Kremlin, are mere dungeons com
pared with it! Not so many castles on
either side the Rhine as on both sides
of the river of God—the ivory palaces!
One for the angels, insufferably bright,
winged, fire-eyed, tempest-charioted;
one for the martyrs, with blood-red
robes from under the altar; one for
the King, the steps of his palace the
crown of the church militant; one for
the singers, who lead the one hundred
and forty and four thousand; one for
you, ransomed from sin; one for me,
plucked from the burning. Oh, the
ivory palaces!
Today It seems to me as if the win
dows of those palaces were Illumined
for some great victory, and 1 look and
see. climbing the stair* of Ivory, and
walking on floors of ivory, and look
ing from the windows of Ivory, some
whom we knew and loved on earth.
Yes. 1 know them There are father
and mother, not elghty-two years and
seventy-nine years, as when they left
us. but blithe and young as when on
thetr marriage day AnJ there are
brothers and sisters merrier than when
we used to romp across the meadows
together Th« cough gone. The can
cer cured. The erysipelas healed. The
heartbreak over. Oh. how fair they
are in the ivory palace*' And your
dear little children that went out from
you Christ did not let on* of them
drop a* he lifted them. Ill did nut
wrench on* of them from you No j
They went ns from on* they loved well !
to On# wh»m they loved better. If I
shoo'd take your little child and preee !
Ite toft fare agalaet my rough cheek. |
I might keep It a little wktle; but wkea
you. the mother, came along It would |
struggle t« go with you And so you
cloud holding your dying child wkea ,
Jeoue psseed by tk the room end Ike
i Itttte une tprsag on* to greet him Tbs' i
ts all Your t'ht.sitan deed did not go ;
down into the dust, and the gravel, I
. tad the mud. Though It rained ait that
funeral day sa l the water cam# u,■ to |
the wheel'* huh aa you drove out to .
. the «*mcle*|, tt nr's no y*®*»en e to
, them tor they e>. p, ».1 f .ite (he h ■use
he * tw the keM there, fight into the
I I
j ivcry palaces. All is well with them,
j All is well.
It is not a dead weight that you lift
when you carry a Christian out. Jesus
makes the bed up soft with velvet
promises, and he says, "Put her down
here very gently. Put that head which
will never ache again on this pillow of
hallelujahs. Send up word that the
procession Is coming. Ring the bells!
Ring! Open your gates, ye Ivory pal
aces!” And so yoUr loved ones are
there. They are Just as certainly there,
having died in Christ, as that you are
here. There Is only one thing more
they want. Indeed, there Is one thing
j in heaven they have not got. They
want It. What is It Your company.
But, oh, my brother, unless you change
your tack you cannot reach that har
bor. You might as well take the South
ern Pacific railroad, expecting in that
dire "Ion to reach Toronto, as to go
on in the way some of you are going,
and yet expect to reach the ivory pala
ces. Your loved ones are looking out of
the windows of heaven now, and yet
you seem to turn your back upon them.
You do not seem to know the sound of
their voices as well as you used to, or
to be moved by the sight of their dear
faces. Call loudpr, ye departed ones!
Call louder from the Ivory palaces!"
When I think of that place,and think
of my entering it, I feel awkward; I
feel as sometimes when I have been ex
posed to the weather, and my shoes
have been bemired, and my coat Is
soiled, and my hair 13 disheveled, and
I stop In front of some fine residence
where I have an errand. I feel not fit
to go in as I am, and sit among the
guests. So come of us feel about
heaven. We need to be washed; we
need to be rehabilitated before we go
into the ivory palaces. Eternal God,
let the surges of thy pardoning mercy
rc'l over us! I want not only to wash
my hands and my feet, but, like sotn9
skilled diver, standing on the pier
head, who leaps Into a wave and comes
up at a far distant point from where he
went In, co I want to go down, and so
I want to come up. O Jesus, wash me
In the waves of thy salvation!
And here I ask you to solve a mys
tery that has been oppressing me for
thirty years. I have been asking it of
doctors of divinity who have been
studying theology for half a century,
and they have given me no satisfactory
answer. I have turned over all the
books in my library, but got no solution
to the question, and today I come and
ask you for an explanation. By what
logic was Christ induced to exchange
the ivory palaces of heaven for the
crucifixion agonies of earth? I shall
take the first thousand million years
in heaven to study out that problem;
meanwhile, and now, taking it as the
tcndereet, mightiest of all facts that
Christ did come; that he came with
spikes In his feet; came with thorns in
his brow; came with spear3 in his
heart, to save you and to save me,
“God so loved the world that he gave
his only begotten Son, that whosoever
believeth in him should not perish, but
have everlasting life." Oh, Christ,
whelm all our souls with thy compas
sion! Mow them down like summer
grain with the harvesting sickle of thy
grace! Hide through today the con
queror, thy garments smelling "of
myrrh, and aloes, and cassia, out of
tbs ivory palaceo”!
ORIGIN OF EXPRESSIONS.
Many of the phrases one uses or
hears every day have been handed
down to us from generation to genera
tion for hundreds of years, and In many
cases they can be traced to a quaint
and curious origin. “Done to a turn”
suggests the story of St. Lawrence, who
suffered martyrdom by being roasted
on a gridiron. During his torture he
calmly requested the attendants to turn
him over, as he was thoroughly roasted
on one side.
In one of the battles between the
Russians and the Tartars, 400 years
ago, a private soldier of the former
cried out; “Captain, I've caught a
Tartar.” "Bring him along, then,” an
swered the officer. “I can’t, for he
won't let me,” was the response. Upon
investigation It was apparent that the
captive had the captor by the arm and
would not release him.
The familiar expression, “Robbing
Pettr to pay Paul,” Is connected with
the history of Weatmlnster abbey. In
the early middle ages It was the cus
tom to call the abbey St. Peter's |’»
thedral. At one time the funds at St.
Paul's cathedral being low, those in
authority took sufficient from St.
Peter's to settle the accounts, much to
the dissatisfaction of the people, who
asked, "Why rob St. Peter to pay St.
Paul?*' Some gob years later the say
ing was again u*»d In regard to the
same collegiate churches, at the tlm«
of the death of the earl of Chatham,
the city of Umdon declaring that the
famous statesman ought to lie In SI
Paul s Parliament, however, Insisted
that Westminster abbey was the proper
place, and not to bury him there would
be, for the eecund time. "Robbing SC
Refer to pay St. Paul.”
*•>»*•» Haiouii
Kir Thu mat O'Cuanur Uwn, Mart.,
ha* lw*i (run th« room ha
ltv*4 la till ku lialli at Curb. ba
raua* b* <ual4 u*t mi Ik* r«a( u( 14
n*u a »»*t II* i* ik* *t*v*aib
h*»M*r ul lb* till* a bub 4al*« b*«b
la U*rt
*i»4ha ***«••«»*■* •<•»«**••
kt lb* **a. taa*** 4ta*ia« la Part*
»l wa* ri(>u fur tb* »'r»«**b araii lb*
a aib*r m r> rail* •*» II Kf Hal
aataihrr ibaa *aa i*ar **«*
'«b* «*!*• ul buataa lib It aa* wn
b.«b la » ..«i* ;-•*• k |>iri la IVal
• Ul* a a **•!« ( Il * la tb* iwuitlv** *4 a
aua *b> b*l **»a bilbrt ua a lailrait
