THAT GIRL of JOHNSON S
By JEA.fi KATE Ll/DLX/M.
Author of '‘At n Girl's Mercy," Etc,
Entered According to Art of Congress *.n the Year 18^0 by Street A fttnfth.
in the Oflice of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D. C.
CHAPTER XXI.—Continued.
Dolores’ heart was so sick, every
thing was so dark for the moment she
fa could not see or think clearly, but she
remembered with stinging ili3tinel
b ness.
"What shall I do?” she cried, “what
shall I do? If he should die—if ho
should die before 1 have asked him to
forgive me I cannot live—I could not
live, I tell you, and let him die believ
ing that.”
“We will be in time, dear.” he said,
quietly, and she did not question it,
scarcely heard the more kindly name,
though the horror somehow fell away
from her heart and a silence and full
despair mingled with an indefinite
hope rested upon her.
Not another word was uttered until
they were standing at the door of the
hospital, Dolores asked brokenly as
xh# clung to his arm. unable to stand
alone for the moment:
“You are sure—sure we are—in
time?”
‘ Yes," said the young man gravely,
and with steady assurance in his voice.
“Yes, Dolores. I5e brave as you al
ways are, and all will be well."
. And as Dr. Dunwiddie held her
hand for a moment, putting new
strength into her fingers from his
steady clasp, he said, cheerily;
“I am glad you are here. Miss John
son. We will need you in the morn
ing. but you can do nothing tow and
would only tire yourself to no use.
We will call you when it is neces
sary.”
• But I cannot sleep— 1 cannot rest
until I have seen my father, Dr. Dun
widdie. May I not at least speak to
him?”
“No. I must say no. Miss Johnson.
Your father is quiet and in a half |
doze: should you see him now he j
would be too weal, to talk to you, and
it would be worse than useless.”
Dolores did not think of resting or
sleeping with the great weight of her
Injustice to her father upon her mind,
but the woman who entered with
them at the orders of tne doctor to.
see that the girl should rest quietly,
removed her things anti induced her
to lie down for a moment any way,
and she slept until a light tapping on
her door awoke her.
< She answered the rap. a tremor in
her voice, her thoughts confused ".nd
unable at first to comprehend where
she was or why she was there, until
the voice on the other side of the door
told her to go to room 37 as soon as
she was ready, and she realized what
had come.
When she entered No. 37. Dr. Dun
widdie turned to her, as she approach
ed with a quiet greeting.
, “We think he wishes to see you,
Miss Johnson,” he said. “Speak to
him. please.” .
1 She leaned over the bed with won
derful self-control; the hollow face
among the pillows was pallid with the
dews of death upon it; the coarse,
scant hair, strayed on the pillow. In
stinctively she touched it half timidly
with her fingers, speaking faintly to
him.
‘ Father,” she said. ‘‘Father!”
He muttered something unintellig
“Father! Father!"
lble without opening his eyes, her
▼olee seeming to reach him even in
his stupor. Then suddenly he started
up and opened wide his eyes—brilliant
they were with a swift, false light—
and looked past the girl and those at
the bedside, to where young Green
was standing near the window away
from the others.
“Ded ye get ther water?” he whis
pered, hoarsely. “Were ther gal
thar?" Then he sank back muttering:
“D'lores—D'lores? Why, she's jest
D'lores—that’s all.”
Then, his voice rising above the
hoarse, weak whisper, he called clear
ly with a new tone in it the name Do
lores had never before heard from
him—the name of her mother.
"I'm a rough ole feller, Mary,” the
weak, broken voice muttered faintly.
"I dedn’t mean ter make ye cry. I
told ye I waru't good ’nough fer ye.”
br. Dur.widdie was standing beside
Dolores, and unconsciously his eyes
were fastened upon her face, spell
bound, as were the tender eyes of her
friend at the window—as were the
eyas of ever} one for the time in the
room.
“Et’s a gal!” he muttered, weakly,
bis voice falling- "I sed most likely
et‘d be a gal. Jest my luck. Eft hed
been a boy, now. But ef ever thet
young feller kems around hvar a-put
tIn* notions inter her head—yes. she’s
purty 'nough. Mary, an' I don't blame !
ye. so don't cry; only ct’s my cursed
luck thet—she—wa'n't a boy—”
The muttering ceased; the weak
voice sank into silence; a faint gasp
stirred the white lips, and the hollow
eyes opened for an instant, all the
light gone from them, and rested on
the face above him; then a strange,
half-livid pallor spread over his face
and Dr. Dunwiddie drew the girl
gently from the bedside over to the
open window. He poured out some
wine from a glass on a stand near,
and pressed .t to her lips,
“Drink it,” he said sternly, and she
obeyed him mechanically.
Young Green came and stood at the
back of her chair, as though to shield
her from any more of life's strain, any
more of the sadness that had followed
her. nay, even to death. His friend
seeing the expression of his face, laid
his hand gently on his arm in sudden
comforting. But Dolores’ hands lay
in her lap like two hands of ice. She
herself seemed turning into ice with
no power of feeling or thought or
wish. She seemed to herself in a
strange half sense to have died when
her father died.
CHAPTER XXII.
But l.ife Went On.
Her father was d«ad; she know It;
she accepted it in silence after the
first wild return to the realization'of
what had come upon her. Only once,
when she was alone with young Green,
while they wore making preparations
to convey the body home, did she
show any sign of emotion. Sho was
standing at tho little window in their
parlor looking out upon the busy
street. Dora, who had come to her
upon receiving the telegram of her
uncle's death, was in the inner room
with Mrs. Allen and the doctors and
one or two of the attendants.
Her father was dead—dead. Never
before had she seen death. She knew
absolutely nothing about any other
life, about anything beyond the days
that passed much alike to her—or had
passed much alike to her until these
friends came into her life. Heaven
was where the stars were; her astro
nomy told her of God, an infinite Be
ing, all powerful, all merciful; the
Creator of all things, but farther than
that she knew nothing.
Thought crowded upon thought, yet
with a distinctness mingled with
those strange half intelligible words
of the past, that was intense suffering
to her. She was in a half stupor, with
her brain so active that it was
wearing away her very life. Dr. Dun
widdie said that she must be aroused;
she must be brought nut of this state;
she must bo moved to tears, or to
some utterance of her grief. She
could not go on like this. For a year
now she had been in this strained
state of feeling. He turned to Dora
in this time of need. She was not the
pale girl who arrived at the mountain
a year before; her face had filled out;
her cheeks no longer bore the hectic
flush, but lield the soft color of ad
vancing health, while her eyes had
lost their strained look of suffering.
Dr. Dunwiddie called her over to
him by the window that morning and
she went to him obediently.
"Something must he done for your
cousin," he said, gravely. "She is in
such a state of half consciousness, her
senses dulled by too much strain upon
them that she is in danger of lising
her mind. Go to her. You are a wom
an, and will know what to do."
"But I don’t know what to do," she
saiil as gravely as he had spoken. "Dr.
Dunwiddie. l^orie is so different trom
other girls, I don t know what to say
when she is like that.”
"It sounds cruel,” he said. "Miss
Dora, but it is the only thing that can
be done, and is true kindness.
“You are always kind,” she said
softly, and the soft eyes lifted to his
were womanly eyes, and the tender,
drooping face was a sweet face to him.
"We will take her away from here as
soon—as—all is over. We return to
New York next week. Dr. Dunwiddie.
There is so much there to take her
mind from these things; the change
will he good—better than anything
else, will it not?’
"You are going—so soon?" he said,
and the grave voice proved the inward
control of the tumult in his heart.
“Dora—Dora, will you leave me with
no promise, no word of kindness, no
hope that I may see you again, have
you—love you? You are very kind to
every one, Dora Johnson, out of the
pure sweetness of your neart—be kind
to me and tell me of some kindly
thought.”
They had forgotten for the moment
the girl in the other room. Dora’s
hands were close in his, Dora’s tender
face was lifted up to his with a half
shy sweetness upon it. Dora’s lips
were whispering something, he scarce
ly knew what, only knew that Dora
was giving to him the tender, sweet,
womanly heart with its purity and
truth—giving this into his keeping to
be held, thank God. through all their
lives as the sacred thing it was—a
woman’s tender heart.
Then, by and by—only a minute it
might be, yet with a life's change to
then—Dora drew away her soft,
warm hands, and a new expression
was on the sweet face, lifted with its
tearful eyes to the face above her.
”1—1 must go to Lone—Harry,” she
whispered, and there was a tremor In
her low voice born of her great happl
ness. “I tbust not forget Lorio eveu—
even now.”
‘Always my thoughtful. tender
girl,” he said, and the low’ spoken
words brought toe deeper color to the
smooth cheeks and a gleam ot happy
light in the lifted gray eyes.
She drew away from him and cros»
ed the roc m to the door of the inner
room, her heart beating rapturously in
spite of the sadness that would come
at thought of the sadness of the
nobler girl In that still, empty room
beyond. But in the doorway she
paused and every thought left her—
every thought save of the girl she had
come to comfort, the brave, noble
true girl who had suffered so much
and so long aione.
Young Green had just entered the
room from the hall. There had been
something in his manner lately that
won Dora's deepest respect. The
lightness that had made him such a
. . i I
“How can he know?1’
jolly comrade had given place to a
quiet humor that made hint a charm
ing companion. She had guessed,
watching him. interested in him, lov
ing Dolores as she loved her—she
guessed of the thought he had for her,
and she honored him loving such a
girl as this grave cousin of hors, this
girl so slightingly spoken of among
her own neighbors because of hea
utter height above them, this gir)
whom her father had hated with h!a
narrow hatred, this girl the personifi
cation of womanliness and truth and
purity.
Dolores turned from the window
at his approach, and a sudden sharp
sense of everytnmg that had gone,
everything that must come in the
future, struck her like a knife. She
turned to him with a bitter cry. hold
ing out her hands as though for help:
“He is dead!” she cried, and the
watching girl in the doorway felt the
hot tears rush to her eyes at sound
of the agonizing voice and the agaony
on the lifted pallid face. “He is dead,
and he does not know I am sorry—
he can never know now.”
He took her hands in his, and he?4
them close and warm in his strong
clasp; his eyes were only full of a
great tenderness and love and longing
to comfort her; nis voice was tender
as a woman’s when he spoke.
“I think he does know', Dolores. I
believe he does know. ‘To whom
much is given much shall be required.’
Therefore, to whom less is given less
shall be required. I believe he does
know and has forgiven you—and m&."
“How can he know?” she cried, and
Dora's hand went out to the strong
hand near her for strength, watching
the lifted icy face before her, never
thinking of her eavesdropping, forget
ting everything but the agony of the
girl. “How can ho know when he is
dead? When he died before I could
tell him—before he could forgive me?
Don't you know that my father h
dead?”
(To be continued.)
The Kaiser and Art.
The Kaiser s latest role is that at
champion of the painters whose pi®
lures have been rejected by the man
agement of the annual German art ex
hibition. Out of 3,000 pictures offered
only 600 have been accepted, and it ia
alleged that the selections are due to
favoritism and improper influences. It
is stated that the modern impression
ist school is favored at the expense of
the other styles.
The painters of the 2,400 rejected
pictures laid their grievances before
the Emperor, and it appears that their
protest has been successful. A high
official in the Ministry of Education,
Privy Councilor Mueller, who is chiefly
responsible for the management of the
art exhibition, has quitted his post. It
is understood the change is due di
rectly to the Emperor's Initiative. It
Is probable that next year the Em
peror intends to participate personally
in the selection of pictures, when the
impressionists, whom he abhors, will
secure less prominence.
She Could Have Her Way.
James I.ane Allen tells the story ol
an old bachelor living in Kentucky,
who, havliag determined to get mar
ried. sought the advice of a married
friend on this serious step. He spoke
of his farm and money and the ma
terial advantages of a union with the
lady of his choice, but sentiment
seemed to have no place in his con
sideration. After listening carefully
to what he had to say on the subject,
the married friend asked:
‘ What if your tastes differed great
ly? Suppose, for instance, that she
liked Tennyson, and you didu't?"
“Well," responded the bachelor, “un
der those circumstances, I suppose
she could go there."—New York 1
Time*. (
CROW FOR MANY YEARS.
Slot Until Fifty Does a Man Stop In
creasing His Stature.
Kecent statistics have proved that
nan's stature increases up to the age
>t fifty years. This is a refutation of
he former belief, according to which
nen stopped growing at twenty-t^fc ?r
wenty-three.
"Boys ami girls." said a surgeon,
‘vary oddly in the rapidity of their
<rowt!i. The fastest growth experi
enced in life comes between the ages
if one and five. Boys and girls grow
ibout equally here.
"From five to tea the boys outstrip
he girls, but from ten to fifteen the
iirls outstrip the boys. At eleven and
ourteen the girls are the boys' super!
irs in hight, and from ten to fifteen
they are the boys' superiors in weight.
“But between sixteen and twenty
;he boys forge ahead, taking at that
ige a lead which they never again re
linquish. The boys cease their per
ceptible growth at twenty-three; the
girls cease theirs at twenty.
“From twenty-three onward to fifty,
men, however, continue to grow'—no
rbservatlons have been made on worn
.^n—though this growth is. of course,
slight. They also increase slowly in
weight; but from fifty to sixty their
weight increases very rapidly.
“Male strength increases most
markedly from the age of twelve to
hat of nineteen; from nineteen to thir
ty it increases more slowly. From
‘hirty onward it begins very slowly to
decline.
“Female strength increases most
rapldly from nine to nineteen; then
slowly to thirty; and after thirty the
decline begins."—Stray Stories.
Economize in Reading.
A French doctor affirms that tho hu
man brain is overtaxed by the pro
fessional writers. We have no con
tdderation for the poor reader, says
the Illustrated London Nows, but force
him to labor through involved sen
tences, intricate spelling, much repeti
tion and very long words. The doc
tor suggests that if we must use a
long word like "tuberculosis” we
should not inflict its appalling length
upon tlie reader more than once, but
indicate it by the initial letter “t." By
this process an article might contain
a large number of Initial letters, and
the reader would he constantly hark
ing back to find what words begin with
"p" and "q." Economy of time, says
the French reformer, is most essen
tial in reading. When you can make
your meaning plainer hy u. diagram do
not bother the public witli the delica
cies of your prose. 1 read a book
lately by a professor of literature who
turned much of Shakespeare into tri
angles and showed that one of his
plots was a parallelogram. This was
done, no doubt, in the interests of
simplification, although the "s“
of the "p" could scarcely
have been apparent to a read
er who chanced to lie in a hurry. If
you do not know what the “s" of the
“p" means you had better economize
your time by reading this paragraph
all over again.
Ala*!
"Will you let me kins you?”
They sat side by side in the gloam
ing, quite close to each other, yet
not so close but that it might have
been possible to be closer. The sun
had gone down behind the western
hills, and the faint shadow of twilight
was beginning to suggest itself In the
recesses of the hills.
He was patient. He said to himself
he would wait.
She did not answer, but looked out
into the clear sky and the fleecy
clouds as they sailed along the hori
zon. Of what was she thinking, he
wondered, as he sat there. But never
mind what It was, he would not hurry
her. Ho would wait.
The distant cull of the owl was
heard, and along the lane In the dis
tance came a procession of cows homo
from the pasture.
For a long time they sat thus, in
deep silence, until she turned her eyes
o his, wondering, questioning.
“Well?" ho asked at last. "Will
you?"
And she gathered herself up and pre
pared to leave.
"It is too late—now!” she said.—
Smart Set.
Dog Had a Purpose.
Dantey language is not always ele
gant or grammatical, but It sometimes
has a force which is unique. Some
young men were standing In Fair
mount park the other evening admir
ing a bull dog belonging to one of
their party when a small white dog
appeared. The bull dog pounced upon
him, and in an instant the air resound
ed with the howls of the dog and the
voices of the men trying to rescue the
smaller animal. Finally the men sue
■ceded in extricating the victim, which
immediately flew down the road, the
>ther dog in hot pursuit.
The crowd stood watching the race
with breathless attention, when a coi
ned man shouted. "He won’t ketch
him! He won't ketch him! Dat
udder dog’s got a purpose, he shnah
has.”
Tine enough, the dog “with a pur
I lose" escaped.—Philadelphia Hedge,.
The Lost Occasion.
Farewell, fair day mid fading light!
The day-born here, with westward night.
Via Iks I he huge sun now downward sour,
••'a re we II. We twain shall meet no more.
Farewell. I watch with bursting sigh
My late contemned occasion die.
I linger useless In my tent;
Farewell, fair day. so foully spent!
Farewell, fair day. If any God
At all consider this poor clod.
He who the fair occasion sent
Prepared and placed the Impediment.
Let him diviner vengeance take—
Give me to sleep, give me to wake
Girded and shod, and bid me play
The hero ill tho coming day!
—Habert Louis Stevenson.
Lesson IV.. Oi tober 25—David’s joy over
forgiveness.—pgh.m 32.
Golden Text—Blessed is he whose trans
gression Is forgiven, whose sin Is cov
ered.—Psalm 32: 1.
First Stanza.—Vs. 1. 2. The Theme.
The Blessedness of being Forgiven.
The Words Expressing Sin. Trans
gression—sin—iniquity, describing sin
in different aspects. There are in the
Bilile nine terms for sin—debts, miss
ing the mark, lawlessness, disobedi
ence, transgression, fault (moral aber
ration), defeat, impiousuess, dishar
mony or discord. For all these kinds
of sin we need forgiveness. And there
are as many words for forgiveness as
for sin—forgive, remit, send away,
cover up, blot out, destroy, wash away,
cleanse, make them as if they bad
never been. "Transgression.” This
word in the original means breaking
loose from God anil the restraints of
his law; hence, rebellion against him.
The Words Expressing Forgiveness.
"Is forgiven.” Literally, taken away,
as a burden (see Ex. 34:7; John 1:29).
The load of sin that burdens the con
science, like Cain's mark too great for
him to bear, is taken away. “Cov
ered." Hidden front sight of God and
man. blotted out of the book of God's
remembrance; as in an account book
the name of the debtor is obliterated,
and the debt canceled.. If we
cover them, there is no blessed
ness; but If God cover them,
they are bid forver. "When the
world forgives, it is at no pains to
cover the sin.” lie is tolerated rather
than blessed. But God covers the sin,
and gives a now chance.
“Imputeth not,” Not reckoned
against him, as debts are in the cred
itor's book, to be collected in due
time: removed from the docket of
the court, so that the case will never
he called up. "In whose spirit there
is no guile,” no decltfulness. "The
condition of forgiveness on man's part
is absolute sincerity.”
Second Stanza.—Vs. 3, 4. Vain Ef
forts for Peace while the Sin is Con
cealed. "When I kept silence." Try
ing to hide bis sin; refusing to ac
knowledge It. to himself, to others, or
to God. "My bones” (the most solid
and enduring part of bis body)
"waxed” (became increasingly) old.
Exhausted, enfeebled, worn out. The
secret sin wore him out and
made him sick. "Through my
roaring all the day long.” The
figure is drawn from the loud
and unrestrained outcries of one suf
fering intolerable and unremitting
pain. He was enduring an agony
which frtrced from him sobB and
groans that he could not stifle. And
this was without cessation. There is
no pain to be compared to that of a
thoroughly awakened conscience.”—
Prof. W. H. Green.
“Thy hand was heavy upon me."
God would not leave him to go on in
sin. God's hand was heavy upon him
in chastisement in order to bring him
into a better mind, as a father chas
tises his child in love (Heb. 12:6-11).
The consequences of sin are one meas
ure of its greatness, and the severity
of punishment showed David how
abominable his sin was In God's sight.
“My moisture is turned into,” etc. He
was like a tree or landscape dried up
in a drought. These terms express
either bodily sickness or the languish
ing of his spiritual life. All the fresh
ness was gone from his spirit; all of
the Joy and delight of living was taken
away; his graces faded. Unconfessed,
unforgiven sin is a terrible torment,
and Rives to the sinner sometimes
in this world a foretaste of the ter
rors to come. "Sin,” says Prof. Vin
cent, "is not covered because we cover
it from ourselves. God covers sin only
when he frankly uncovers It.”
Third Stanza.—V. 5. Peace through
Confession and Forgiveness. “ Ac
knowledged . . . not hid . . .
confess." The three words expressing
the completeness and thoroughness of
the confession. Nothing was with
held. “True confession implies your
viewing that fact (of sin) in the same
light m which God views it.” “And
thou forgavest.” God loves to for
give, and lie will forgive as soon
as the sinner comes to that state of
mind when forgiveness will do good to
him, and at least not injure others.
The atonement of Christ and the con
dition on which forgiveness can be
granted—faith in him—are to induce
sinners to repent, and to prevent his
forgiveness from increasing the sin of
the world.
The first great, need of each human
being is the forgiveness of sins. A
religion that cannot assure us of God’s
forgiveness is a vain religion.
Forgiveness is not merely the tak
ing away of the punishment of sin, but
it is restoration to the family of God,
to his favor, to the enjoyment of his
love, as children and heirs of God.
Sin unforgiven shuts us away from
God; we cannot look him in the face.
We cannot feel at home and at peace
In the presence of our Father.
Forgiveness does not remove all
kinds of consequences of sin. But it
does remove the sin itself, the love of
sin, and the punishment of sin. There
were, indeed, certain consequences of
David's sin which repentance, no mat
ter how deep and sincere, could not
remove.
Repentance could not ward off the
bitter trouble to come from his polyga
mous household in the death by the
sword of two of his grown-up sons; it
could not preserve liathsheba's child
alive; it could not bring Uriah back
irom the dead; it could not keep some
from blaspheming the name of God (2
Bern. 12: If) down to the latest ages.
There are some results of sin which
even forgiveness does not remove—at
least, in this world. Still, the conse-i
quences were greatly modified by his
repentance.
Bin is forgiven for Christ’s sake,
because he has by his atonement
made it possible for God to be just,
and yet justify (forgive) those who
believe. The atonement removes the
evil which would come upon the in
dividual and upon the community if
free pardon were offered to all. with
out this preparation and condition.
Fourth Stanza.--V. 6. David's Ex
perience Brings Hope to All. ‘‘For
this.” Ou account of this expertenca
of David. "Every one that is godly.”
“That is the object of God's gracious
love, and is filled with pious affection
in return"; every good man, whose
general desire is to do right, and yet
falls into sin, every one who seeks
God’s forgiveness. "In a time when
thou inayest be found.” Before it is
too late, for there is a delay which
loads to a time of not finding (Prov.
1:28). The disease may become in
curable. There is a "too late" as in
the case of the foolish virgins. Not
that God's forgiveness falls, but man
makes his own heart too hard. “Surely
in the floods of great waters.” The
trouble, the disaster, the conscious
ness of guilt, the punishments for sin
come like a sudden and overwhelming
mountain torrent. "They shall not
come nigh unto him.” That is, the
waters shall not reach him, because
he is too far ubove them, in some
safe shelter. God's forgiving love,
shown to us In Jesus Christ, is his
safety and defense.
Fifth Stanza.—V. 7. One Blessing
of the Forgiven—Safety. "Thou art
my hiding place.” Where the floods
of trouble cannot find him. “An allu
sion to those rocky fortresses and
crags inaccessible to an enemy, which
were sought in times of danger."—
Barnes. “Thou shalt preserve me
from trouble.” How? By forgive
ness, by removing the punishment, by
bringing good out of evil, by turning
defeats into victories. “Thou shalt
compass me about with songs of de*
llverance." As he was besieged on
every side with troubles, so on every
side there would be victories and
songs to celebrate them. Wherever
there had been a sin, there was a song
of forgivness; wherever a temptation,
a song of deliverance; wherever an
enemy, a song of victory.
Sixth Stanza.—Vs. 8, 9. Another
Blessing,—Guidance. “I will Instruct
thee.” David’s experience Is God’s
text. If any go astray it is because
they will not listen to God’s instruc
tion. “I will guide thee with mine
eye.” My look shall show you the
way. I will keep watch over you;
mine eye will ever be upon you, not
to watch for faults, but for guidance.
“Be ye not as the horse, or as the
mule.” “irrational animals, who are
guided by force and not by reason.”—
Murphy. Sin is always irrational; to
sin is to act without understanding.
“Bit and bridle.” Instead of noble,
moral influences. God will govern
men by reason. If they are willing to
be so governed; by force, if they re
ject his words. “Lest they come near
unto thee.” Better as in R. V.. "else
they will not come near unto thee,”
will not be subject to your control, in
harmony with your purposes.
Seventh Stanza.—Vs. 10. 11. An Ex
hortation. “Many sorrows shall be to
the wicked,” and he cannot escape
them or gain the victory over them
so long as he remains wicked. Evil
will pursue and overtake him. “But
he that trusteth In the Lord.” He
receives mercy, because faith or trust
Implies that he has forsaken and con
fessed his sin, hates it, and has come
back to his Father an obedient child,
led and saved by Jesus Christ. There
fore only those who believe can be
saved. “Mercy shall compass him
about.” Mercy, God’s loving-kindness,
is around him on all sides, as the cir
cumference of a sphere is about the
center, so that, in no direction can
harm come to him.
“Be glad in the Lord ... ye
righteous.” Not those who have never
sinned, but those who, having been
pardoned, are now loving and serving
God. Who shall say that religion
makes good people unhappy and dull?
peaertn urano Jury indicts.
CLEVELAND, O.—The federal
grand jury here returned indictraent3
against Michael Gilbo, Percy Laubacb,
D. G. Lyon and David G. Armstrong,
rubber manufacturers of Akron, who
were recently arrested on complaint
#f Anthony Comstock and charged
with sending contraband goods
through the malls. No indictments
were found against J. C. Frank and J.
T. Diehm, charged with the same of- j
fense, they being completely exoner- /
tted. j
Appeals for Relief Funds.
LONDON—The archbishop of Can-i
‘.erbury has issued an appeal urgently
representing the necessity for sub
scriptions to the Macedonian relief
fund.
Will Be Settled Peaceably.
BERLIN—Count Inoye, the Japan
ese minister, says everything in th<f
ilspute between Japan and Russia will'
be settled amicably.
