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g^SH5ESESHSHSHSH5HSH5ES7=SE !'THEMANf | By EFFIE ADEL g lis ^?5ESS5ES2SHSESESHSESE5HS CHAPTER XXIX. 19 Continued. "Lady Derriman!"' repeated the girl, faintly; words were almost impossible to her just then. "Will you do this? It will give me great happiness if I know you are together." A wave of inexpressible gladness and joy mingled with Enid's mental agony; the tenderness of his tones touched her poor, aching heart to the core. "Then I will go most willingly," she said; and Dare saw thai the tears well into her eyes. It was he who then took up the subject, and very briefly told Enid all that Gervais wished, and before 11 lad struck, while the bells were chiming out on the cold, wintry air, Enid lad stepped into tne carnage wim Dare and her faithful Maria, who went at the earl's command, and rolled away from Bromley Manor, leaving the man she loved above all n the world sitting, with bowed head, ilone before the shattered remains of lis great love, faith and happiness. And while the world gossiped, and .hen forgot them for a time, two women lived a peaceful life together In the London house of the Derriman family. Enid and Gervais' mother would have been happy?more than nappy?in the mutual pleasure their ilose companionship gave, had not both their hearts been heavy and sore with thought of him; they neither of ihem knew half of the misery that he was enduring, but they had learned innuo-Vi in nitv onrl tn mrnirn. "My child!" Lady Derriraan would call the girl, "my dear child!" And Enid's big blue eyes would fill with tears as she was drawn down and tenderly kissed. "My mother in Heaven sees this, and is happy," was her grateful bought. In her letters to her son Lady Derriman told him again and again how much she loved Enid, and what a comfort she was; and Gervais always felt a thrill of satisfaction and pleasure come to him as he read this; a momentary gleam of something rare and sweet that flashed across his dark life like a golden meteor, only to vanish and leave a blackness of nit/) ti'nrcn tVion V*n_ ucopaii auu cuuti ?? ktl V-HUU U^,tore. What had passed between himself and his wife that awful Christmas Day none would ever know; perhaps Enid alone out of all guessed what a terrible meeting'it must have been, Dut she did not see him again, and she never spoke of the subject to his mother. Gervais and his wife traveled about from place to place, staying in none long. "What was the matter with the :ountess?" the fashionable world would ask itself; "it certainly was mysterious; no one seemed to know what ailed her, and yet she undoubt dly was an invalid, and the earl was dreadfully troubled about her, anyoody could see that. Why, he looked a different man of late, he seemed to have grown almost worn and old? handsome Gervais, the idol of soci ety:?ana nis nair was aimosi gray. Oh! he was absurdly fond of her then, she was very beautiful, perhaps not so beautiful as she used to be, and her manner was so strange." Enid and Lady Derriman heard little of this chatter; they lived in a quiet world of their own, peopled with artistic fancies and poetical thoughts. The few guests who came to visit marvelled at the sweet beauty Df the girl, and her contentment with so monotonous an existence, and they would ask her out, now and then, from a mistaken idea of charity. "Why not go, my dearest?" Lady Derriman would ask sometimes. You are too young to be cooped up with an old woman." Eut Enid had always one answer: I "I do not want them, and I want rou." So time went on, and as spring was last melting into summer, Bromley Manor was opened to receive it? lord and lady again. CHAPTER^XXX. The Drunkard. One lovel:r June evening Enid was , alarmed an<' distressed by a sudden fainting fit seizing Lady Derriman. The sweet, gentle natured woman had been ailing more or less for the last few weeks, but she steadily refused to let Gervais know; she did not wish to alarm him. The old doctor who came confirmed Enid's own opinion that the malady was not so much menial as bodily, and the girl determined thai Lord Derriman should be made aware of bis mother's weakly condition without delay. "Briggs," she said to the faithful maid who had been in her ladyship's service for years and years, "I am going to tell Lord Derriman aboui this illness without delay." "Yes, miss," Briggs answered, wiih j a sigh. "Shall you write or telegraph I to his lordship, Miss Enid?" Enid paused. A faint eoloi rose to her pale cheeks. "Neither," she answered, firmly. "I will go myself tomorrow morning early. Say nothing to Lady Derriman about this, or else she will perhaps prevent me, and 1 know that the sight of the earl will do her more good than all the doctors. Maria shall go with me." Briggs listened in silence, and as the girl went away she shook her head. "Ah! if he'd ouiy chosen her! " she said to herself. 'f^e sun shone radiantly as Enid, with Maria in graceful attendance, alighted at Groombridge Station, am* \ drove away in a fly to Bromley Manor. Her heart ras beating wildly, a crowd of painful memories througed / SHSHSHSHSHT^SuHSHSaSHSS^ $1 to Gj co) iHE LOVED] 11 K fej n] AIDE ROWLANDS. I X ) In bis -**1 in wc . H5H5HSE52SH5HSH5ESBS2SHt2!?V ml I into her breast as she alighted and passed in through the open door. Pj"! j Meg, the collie, rose to greet her with a low whine of delight, and Parsons C01 hurried into the dining room full of 1 surprise and pleasure at sight of Miss 31 Leslie. *'? "Where is Lord Derriraan?" she asked, quickly. And then, before he ?e could answer, some one came rush- e' j ani ing down the stairs toward her. Could her senses have left her, or was this Dorothy?the beautiful, golden-haired girl whom everybody worshiped so blindly? This was an e untidy, shapeless creature with dis- * heveled locks, white, bloated cheeks, ?; on rorl Klourv ovoc nnH pnarepiipri linS! her whole person breathing the existence of some hideous meaning. e< Enid staggered back as this advanced toward her and Maria uttered a cry of alarm. a c Parsons flung himself between Enid and her cousin. ap' "You must go back, my lady!" he said, firmly; then, lifting his voice, he se called, loudly, "Virginle! Mrs. Rob- w erts! Come down!" aw The wretched creature tried to force past his arm, growling savagely the while at the pale, frightened girl, who crouched back in sick dread and pain, and then the hall seemed full of an< rie people running, and sounds of ex- . postulations mingled with a woman's hoarse cries and screams, in the midst an< roc of which Enid felt rather than saw ( liervais' pure, paie race pieaamg a.i- ^ most tenderly to his wife to go quietly back to her room. W6 She closed her eyes and leaned , against a chair. Parsons stood by, brushing his brow with his hand. _ "She's awful bad to-day; the 0 tremens is worse nor usually!" he a' muttered. f f on Enid gasped; the ghastly proces- fl sion had passed up the broad stair- . . case down which Dorothy had glided . so often, decked out in her silks and we diamonds, lovely as the stars. . "What?what is it?" she breathed .or to the man. - . - __^ -x ^ tre .tie xurnea ana iooKea ai iier auu i shook his head with a sigh. I ? "It's drink, miss; she's been like this for weeks past. She must a' seen i you a-comin' and got loose. Here | comes his lordship, poor fellow! Ah, j it most breaks my heart, that it does. ' < to see him." J ] Gervais came quickly up to Enid, boc Involuntarily she held out her two hands, and he grasped them: the Mis sight of her pure, fair face, her sweet, wa trustful eyes, was like heaven to him we] after that hideous scene. Without speaking, he drew out into the sun- fan shine. Maria stood aloof, tears rain- x ing down her cheeks. in. Gervais drew a deep breath as they bea were outside, then buried his face in wit his hands, and she stood trembling est; beside him, knowing him to be the tin very acme of her existence, yet forbidden to minister to his sufferings. lau "My mother?what of her? For j old Heaven's sake, never tell her!" eye "Can you not trust me?" she an- mo swered; and then she told him the he reason of her coming. Cui "I will return with you," he said, * ?.'s a sigh broke from his lips; "but Bri I can not stay?I am wanted here." wai He took two or three turns on the the colonnade, then stopped before her. "Oh, Enid! child, if you could only ant know all I have endured?the shame! ] This?this has been going on ever anc since Christmas, and now, you see," wii he shuddered, "I can do nothing for ove her?give her no pleasure in life? ing but this horrible, cursed drink! She does not even realize my efforts; Bhe wel has grown to hate me! My wife, the mij woihan I loved so well?Heaven help Dei me; too well!?is degraded to the ranimal you saw just now!" Then an< suddenly looking at her, "Did she wa touch you?" he asked nervously; "did sur she hurt you? She is strong and sor nnvrerfiil at thpec Hmps hpr Vepnpra i *** v-v. v* ^ iir; can scarcely held her:" wh Enid shook her head; she could qu< not speak; words were choked in her hin throat. wo "Poor child," he said, tenderly; ing "poor child! I would have spared hat you this." hei Enid turned away. ren "Will you come now?" she faltered, enc tremulously, and he understood her; \ ant she could not bear to remain longer ' at Bromley. "Walk down the avenue with your maid; I will overtake you. I have j some orders to give. We shall just siz< catch a good train back to town, wii Walk slowly." wai Gervais spoke in a commonplace gus way on purpose; he saw that the girl sig: was too overwrought and wretched siti to listen to his miserable story. a 1 Maria walked beside her young ug( mistress in alarmed silence. Enid See only opened her lips once. thi: "Not a word of this at home," she to said, and Maria saw her face was as mo white as death. Then they pushed on, and in a little while Gervais joined them and they walked till they overtook the No village fly that had brought Enid, a s and drove in it the rest of the way. to Lady Derriman welcomed her son daj with a cry of joy, and he buried his ce^ face on her shoulder as she clasped No him in her arms. an( "This was Enid's doings, I know," he: she said, tremulous with happiness. "Oh, my dear, dear one!" ret She stroked the bent head with the Hi] brown locks so cruelly and prematurely whitened, but she asked him no questions. Mother and son sat , holding each other's hands, content jev for the moment in the inexpressible br? rladiicss a:id comTori. ol each other's wit presence. drt If she traced new agony on his be- ma loved face, Lady Derriman made no mention of it, only caresscd her boy with double tenderness, and gallantly wii hid from him her aching heart and inc mother's sorrow. be He stayed till evening and then scs [ went. to "I will come again soon," he said Enid as they stood alone, "but I am ntent when I know she is with yon. taven bless you, dear, and grant ur life may be a happier one than ne. Enid, I sometimes think I tm ing punished now for my idolatry, oved her more than my life?ay, I ir more than my God, and now?" They clasped hands silently; Enid's rely eyes were wet with tears, and sn he went, and she stood watching s young figure, stamped with such ie and agony as rarely come to in, pass from her sight. That night she knelt down and lyed for him, and for Dorothy, too. e dared not let herself think of her jsin. The haughty, beautiful face, th its cold, steel-gray eyes, its ighing mouth and ivory teeth, uld 'rise out of the past to mock r; and then once again she would ; that hideous, bloated countenance, ar the coarse screams and words d realize with a shiver that this s proud Dorothy's end. ******* July was drawing to a close. Lady rriman, now convalescent, was nking of migrating to her Scottish me for change of air, and Enid was ly too glad to go. Every now and then Gervais had jn up to see his mother, but nc rd of Dorothy passed his lips tc ;m or between themselves when me. r.artv nprriman kent the bitter dis pointment and pain that had folded on her son's marriage to herf, and Enid was thankful, for at could she say now with tbii ful knowledge ever before hei ?s? One late night, so hot that tht islin curtains did not move in tht >eze, a cab rattled up to the dooi 3 a man entered the house hurdly. Lady Derriman had gone to bed, I Enid was alone in the drawing >m, dreaming by the open window She started up as Gervais came in; was dusty and worn, his face wai sd and furrowed, his eyes sunk and ary. 'Enid," he said, with a broken sob ?it is ended; she is dead! Oh rothy, my lost wife! My losl ling!" He staggered to a chair, buried his e in his hands and burst into a )d of passionate tears. It was ot fair young bride he thought then! e agony, the horror, the misery re gone, and yet he mourned her he had loved her with a love pass; words. Enid rose and put one mbling hand on his bent head, n went slowly away and left him ,h his sorrow alone. CHAPTER XXXI. Six Years After. 'What is it, Parsons?" L?ady Derriman looked up irom ner )k. 'Please, my lady, I'm lookin' for 3S Enid. Mr. Simmonds have Iked over from Sir George Knebll's and wishes to see her." 'You will find her in the studio, I ,cy." \nd in a few moments Enid came Six years had made of her a very lutiful woman; she carried herself h rare, proud grace; the old mod y was tnere, Dut tne sny, snrinKing lidity was gone. 'Mother, what do you think?" she ghed, kneeling down beside the er woman, her great sapphire is glistening and sparkling. "Simnds has just been here to tell me is going to be married?to Mrs. llam, too!" 'I heard it an hour ago from ggs, who, I am bound to confess, s not very complimentary to m." "They are two dear old creatures, I I like them both!" Snid planted her chin in her hand i gazed into the fire, for it was iter time once more. "I must run ir and see Cullam some time durthe day." 'I expect we shall have Lady KnebII here to tea with Mildred; you ;ht drive back with them," Lady rriman said, fondly. rhe inhabitants of Knebwell Hall 1 Bromley Hall were on terms of rm friendship. It had come as a prise not unmingled with pain and row to Sir George Knebwell when found tnat his poor young cousin, 0 died so prematurely, had bejathed her fortune and estates to a. He never knew and never uld know that it was Gervais' do;s, and that Dorothy had always ;ed him; but the earl had guarded memory so carefully that only a lote few were aware of her terrible 1, and those were stanch to him 1 kept his secret well. (To be continued.) Rock of Ages. V beautiful picture 7x8 feet in s is on exhibition in one of the idows of Eisenstein's store. It s painted by Denny Scott for Au;t Buscb, of St. Louis, and dened from the sentimental compoon "Rock of Ages." It is that of ady clinging to the cross for ref; as her only means of safoty. Mr. itt is becoming quite an artist, and s piece of work adds new laurels his credit.?St. Charles (Mo.) Coss. A Doctor's Mistake. A. physician in a small town in rthern Michigan got himself into erious predicament by his inability remember names and people. One f while making out a patient's rept his visitor's name escaped him. t wishing to appear so forgetful i thinking to get a clue he asked whether she spelled her name :h an e or i. The lady smilingly ilied: "Why, doctor, my name is ,1."?Success. The Superior Man. K new electric nxture consists of a yeled, hand-wrought, polished, iss band carrying a centre light ;h mother of pearl shades and three >p lights, with shades of the same terial. The timber output of Maine last ater was 900,000,000 feet, and the lications are that these figures will. about equalled this year. The ircity of labor prevented operations a large dtfgree. THE PUIaPIT. r "w ! ; ELOQUENT BACCALAUREATE SERMON BY PRESIDENT HADLEY, OF YALE. Theme: Faith in Man. ! New Haven, Conn.?President ! Hadley of Yale University preachsd J ; his baccalaureate sermon before the ! I faculty and students In the chapel In ( New Haven. His subject was "Faith , In Man." He took his text from iPsalms 15:1-3: "Lord, who shall abide In Thy tabernacle? Who shall ' dwell in Thy holy hill? He tha$ 1 walketh uprightly, and worketh i righteousness, and speaketh the truth | In his heart. He that backbieth not : with his tongue, nor doeth evil to his ! i neighbor, nor taketh up a reproach | : against his neighbor." In the course . : of his sermon President Hadley said: | In order to accomplish anything ; great; a man must have two sides to i I his goodness: a personal side and a ; social side. He must be upright him- j ! self and he must believe in the good ! ' intentions and possibilities of others j i about him. We recognize the first of these j things. We know that the leader j ; must have principles of 'his own; ' j that he must stand for something j definite, which he is prepared to ! ' * - ? - -Li 1- 51 ! ; maintain mruugu em ic^uit quu > | good report. We do not, I think, | j recognize the second of these things j i to an equal degree. We do not ap- | ! predate how necessary it is for a ; j man to believe in those about him j just as far as he can and co-operate j with them just as fully as he can. : i Yet this also is a condition of leader- i i ship. No matter how high the ideals j J for which we stand, we cannot expect j i others to follow us unless we have confidence in them. We cannot ex- i j pect devotion if we return it with ; distrust. We cannot expect co-oper- ! ation unless we are prepared to give i 1 freely of our confidence. The man J who lacks faith in other men loses J his best chances to work, and gradu- j I ally undermines his own power and i i his own character. The man who j | has this faith in other men gets his : ; work done and impresses his own j personality and Ideals upon his age j i and his nation. It was this faith in j men which made David, with all his ! faults, a worthy forerunner of Jesus j ! l^nribl. It wtLS luib laiLU m rncu j which marked every stage of the j work of Jesus Christ Himself. i It is not hard to see this when we ! ! study the history of religion. It is j had to realize its decisive importance j i in the incidents of our daily life, j Yet it is just as essential to-day as it j ! ever was. I Now we, as ambitious men, are not I ! only ready, but anxious, to go into i | honorable competition. We believe I that we can do something for the j I world, and we are ready to stand by j i the results; to make what we do the ( ; test for leadership. But while we ; ! are engaged in this work?whether j | it be in law or in business, in pollj tics or in scientific discovery?there ' comes a tempter who says: You are ; making a mistake to put your atten- , tion solely upon your work. You J will never get on in this way. You ' j are intent upon doing what is to be j j done. This would be all right if all j others were doing the same thing. ( . But they are not. They are bending their energies toward getting credit . | for what is being done?not only the 1 , credit that belongs to them, but the ! [ credit that belongs to you. Insensibly, we begin to believe these intima tions: insensibly we pay a little less attention to. our work and a little more to keeping ahead of our fellows. Suspicion takes the place of j co-operation. We enter into a con- j test with those who ought to be our 1 friends. Sometimes w win the con- { test, sometimes we lose it. Whether ! we win or lose, the work itself is ! sacrificed. We remain at best leaders i of a cause where there is nothing worth leading. The man who is cynical, whether about women, or business, or poli- ' tics, is assumed?and in nineteen ! cases out of twenty, with full justice ?to be immoral in his relations to women or business or politics. The man who has faith in the integrity of .others in the face of irresponsible onnnodii'mo 1*0 occumpH?and In nine- ' teen cases out of twenty justly assumed?to have the confidence in others' goodness because he is a good i man himself. This is why people will I follow the optimist even though he is I sometimes wrong, and shun the pes- : ; simist even though he is sometimes { | right. It does not make much difference ! what is the law or what is the creed i j of the church, in comparison with ! I the question whatds the habitual at- . | titude of men toward their neigh- j bors. Not only the man who origin- j j ates slanders, but the man who idly j j repeats them, or even lends ready ' credence to them, is poisoning the ! rources of public opinion. One of the I J.rst things that is prohibited in war- j fare as soon as nations begin to berime civilized is the poisoning of veils. Yet we too often allow in j I 'mes of peace the poisoning of the v ells of public opinion by the light repetition of unfounded reproacfe ajainst one's neighbor. The prophets who preceded Jesus cr.ucisea xne evus 01 uucn muc just j a? unsparingly as did Jesus Himself, and at far greater length. The thing that He had and that they had not i was the belief in the essential good- I nfss of humanity, which would respond positively to the gospel of self- ' sacrifice. He that would follow in I the footsteps of the Master must be | prepared, not simply to stand upright j himself, but to have faith that others j will stand by him. i Gentlemen of the graduating class: Tho scholars and scientific men of the country have sometimes been reproached with a certain indifference i to the feelings and sentiments of j ibeir fellow men. It has been said i that their critical faculty is developed ! more strongly than their constructive j Instinct; that their brain has beeD ; nourished at the expense of their ! heart; that what they have gained in breadth of vision has been outweighed by a loss of human sympathy. | It is for you to prove ice iaise- i I nes.-. of this charge. There will probably be times when this is a hard task. If you have studied history or literature or science aright some things which look large to other people will look small to yc Yo ? will frequently be called upon to give the unwelcome advice that a desired end cannot be reached by a> short cut. There are always times when a man who is clear-headed is reproached with being hard-hearted. But if you yourselves keep your faith i in your fellow men, these things, though they be momentary hindrances, will in the long run make for power of Christian leadership. THE GREAT DESTROYER SOME STARTLING FACTS ABOUT THE VICE OF INTEMPERANCE. \ The Dog, or the Wife and Children. Hueber had drawn his wages for the week, now $8.50; formerly it was $30. But Hueber had fallen into evil ways and gone down gradually, until he was unfit for anything but the commonest and most unskilled labor. He had moved from his former comfortable home to a wretched little shanty on the outskirts of the city. Saturday meant a half-holiday to Hueber, a great spree, and the wasting of all his wages. It meant dread and grief to his family. It was March, a cold, pitiless day, with the biting wind from the northwest. After drawing his $8.50 Hueber made a bee-line for the saloon, paid up for last week's drinks and then filled up full on the poison they willingly gave him. With a few pennies in his pocket, he started for the butcher's. His brain was beginning to whirl and his feet to stagger. He asked for ten cents' worth of soup bone. Three small pieces of the poorest and cheapest were given him, being wrapped in a piece of brown paper, but not tied. Then Hueber started home, growing colder and more bewildered at each and every step. He tried hard to hold on to the three small pieces of soup bone, but his hands we're very cold. He had no mittens, no overcoat, a wretched old hat, shoes badly worn. Just as he passed the church that stands for all that is good and ele vating in the community, his legs gave out and he fell to the pavement. The pieces of soup bone went with him, one piece in front of him. one on each side of the cement walk in the dirt. He tried and tried again to rise, but for a long time he could not. Then a beautiful child, a Jittle boy about four years old cam'e tc where he was, stood and looked at him a minute, while the man looked up at the child. Finally the dear little fellow took in the situation, evidently thinking the man was sick, and so he gathered up the pieces of soup bone, while the man staggered desperately to regain his footing, when he had done so, the child handed him the pieces of soup born and tripped merrily on. Huebei blundered forward two blocks farther and again fell to the cemehl sidewalk. Again the meat was scattered here and there. This time nol a child, but a large dog came upon the scene, and thinking, no doubt that he had more right to the bom than the prostrate man, he seized the largest piece and trotted off, while poor Hueber looked on in helpless confusion. * Some time later Hueber managed to regain his feet and his remaining two pieces of soup bone and reached home, where the wife and childrer had been anxiously waiting for him many hours. When the wife saw the two tiny pieces, with not enough meal upon them for one person, her hearl sank and she fell into a chair sobbing. "O John! John! Is this all we are to have from now until Monday morning? What have you done with the paper that was wrapped about the meat?" '*1?I dun know. Guess it blowec away, an'?an'?the cur?he took the biggest piece. I seed him run ofl with it?but?but?I couldn't catct him!" And so the poor Hueber family had to manage on less than five cents worth of meat for their Sundaj meals. That same afternoon the saloon' keeper's wife went downtown witl six dollars of the wages of Huebei in her pocket. She purchased a nic< roast for eighty-five cents and a bet ter soup bone for her yellow dog thai John Hueber had bought for his wif< and children. Somebody had voted to give the sa loonkeeper the right to rob Johr Hueber and his wife and children Somebody had voted to make it pos Bible for John Hueber to get so drunli that he could not walk and for th( dog to run away with his soup bone and somebody in a little while wil have to help support the Hueber wif< and children, for John will not las long at this rate. Someone is help ing to kill him. Noboay arrested th< dog for stealing the meat, for every body was sur'fe the dog was not t( blame. But somebody was to blami and 1 have been asking who it was Can any one tell??C. W. Stephen son. Saloon is Doomed. The official organ of the Nationa Liquor League of America, which is published under the name, Bever ages, unites with Bonfort's, anothei periodical in the service of alcohol, ii expressing the opinion that the sa loon is doomed. It writes editorially as follows: "The result in Georgia presents n( pleasant outlook for any section o the business. That State in its jud'g *- 1 4.nil olilr/a on^ n ( mem U&5 UCOICU an aiinv, w. false notion that beer is a temper ance beverage and should be allowec to hold on has been brought forj ward. "We dislike to acknowledge it, bu' we really believe the entire businesj all over has overstayed its opportuni ty to protect itself against the on ward march of Prohibition, which ii some sections of the country is ad vancing like a prairie fire and not i hand raised to stop its progress. "Five years ago a united industr; might have kept back the situatioi that now confronts it, but to-day it ii too late. "Might as well try to keep out th< Hudson River with a whisk broom.' Prescribes Xo Alcohol. Professor Max Kassowitz, M. D. of Vienna University Medical School Austria, says: "I have not pre scribed alcohol to my patients fo mure than fifteen years, and can af firm positively that they have fare< well under this change of treatment Since I formerly followed the uni versal practice, I am competent t( make comparisons, and these speal unconditionally in favor of treatnasn without alcohol." A Hateful Thing. Search through the history of thi hateful thing, and read one pag* over which some mother can bov her grateful head and thank God fo all the Baloon did for her boy There is no such record. All its his tory is written in tears and blood with smears of shame and stains o crime and dark blots of disgrace.? "Ecb" Burdette. Not many years ago of the twenty four aldermen in New York City tea were liquor dealers and two other: had been such. j T/yjUgHTS QUItTH^R A MORNING PRAYER. Dear Father, hear us while we pray, That through the hours of this one da) Our humble dwelling place may be ! Fast closed to all despondency. ^ Let sunshine find an entrance here, To fill our hearts with wholesome cheer, j And grant us courage to express i A large, unflinching hopefulness. I ) Strengthen our hands, and help us find ; The fountains that refresh the mind, 1 j And may the faith by which we live i Have fragrance such as roses give. I : Help us, dear God, this day, and make ' \ ! New music in our souls awake? , ' | Communicable songs that show j The glad companionship we know. ! ?Stephen Tracy Livingston, in The Con; gregationalist. Unfinished Pictures. I had laid myself down to rest, and \ i ns T rlnserl mv ptps mv minrt wnn? dered back -to the,^?ords I had been | reading in the Bible a few moments | before,, about the great refiner. I ; remembered also, the process of refining silver, how the metal was con! sidered unfinished until it reflected the refiner's image. I Thus thinking I fell asleep, and was led into "dreamland," where I i thought myself in a studio. I looked ' around, wondering, for it did not ' seem like anything I had ever seen : before. There were many easels ! standing about, holding unfinished 1 pictures; and pieces of canvas, with I simple outlines, were resting against ! the wall on all sides of the room just ! leaving a corner, where an old man i with silvery hair and softened fea: tures sat slowly painting. In a few moments I noticed that he stopped and put aside his brush and palette, when only the very last touch seemed wanting to complete his labor, i I was puzzled with the scene bej fore me; and, eager to have it ex; plained, I said: "Sir, will you tell me why there are so many pictures , unfinished, and what all t'aese outi lines are for?" He replied, "I am the artist of the I King of kings, and He bids me paint the pictures of His children. I can only paint them as they grow like Him in their character, and, alas! it (s very slow work. Sometimes there are years in which I cannot touch a picture already begun, for the characters do not grow, they are ever asleep. Others grow quite rapidly anH andripnlv Rtnn. as if thev were 1 , | wearied, and so the pictures must re- j t | main as I left them. The outlines i | that you see are those who bear our ] > Lord's name, but have never shown < i ; any likeness to Him, and I am watch- < tng each day, homing to fill them in." , [ J I thought to myself, is there a ] ; ! picture here for me, or am I one of ] i j those simple outlines? but I will ask, j i i for I ought to know where I stand, j i j So trembling, I said:"Is there any- , , thing here for me?" j ; I The artist moved to a corner I had \ [ not noticed, and drew from it a pic- i . i ture just commenced. There was ; j something more than, an outline, and ) s | there were touches that looked quite ] I freah. as if they had been put on late- ( . | ly. I looked at it with eyes scarce | 1 able to distinguish, they were so full j of tears, as I saw how little was j I ' painted; and yet, hardly expecting , , I anything. I was glad and grateful, j I The old man seemed touched by j | ; my emotion and said to me, "You ] i have been growing more this last ] I j year; you have been working for j ? others as our Lord commanded, j r Many times you have not pleased , ! yourself, and we are told in holy , . j Scripture that that was part of our 1 , , Saviour's life; 'for He pleased not i , i Himself.' Take courage! and let m? ] j { paint diligently. When you become , like unto Him, the picture will be | [ j 3one." , , : Then I understood why there | were so many unfinished portraits i j In this quaint old studio, and why < the dear, gray-haired artist stopped j just as his work seemed completed. , I It was because our Lord's disciples j " stopped in the way of their duty. , , And with these thoughts I awoke > ' from my strange dream. I j But I felt as if I had looked be- < yond the veil. The studio and its , t uncompleted pictures and bare out' , iines. were all plain before me; the , j gentle face and touching tones of , ' the artist were with me, too, all wero | " stamped on my memory^ The par- , cial picture of myself I felt I could j ? never forget, and yet I was humbly , ' thankful that it was not a simple , " j outline. It had begun to be som&- , ! thing. , Let us not be content until we are ^ i full pictures of Him "who paints our j i everyday lives." Let us not be weary , 1 j and pause in our duty, but. with His | 3 I grace, go steadily, lovingly on until , ? the last touch is added to the can- J ; r | ras, when it will leave the studio of J ) | earth for the walls of Heaven.? , . [ Zion's Watchman. , 1 j < Give Yourself. i j ; Someone has aptly defined ordinary j f ! :harity as "giving something that you ( Jon't want to somebody else." And { 3 scientific charity as "giving some- i - thing that you don't want to some- ? 1 | body that doesn't want it." And or- t r I ganized scientific charity as "giving t something that you don't want to an j t institution that it may give it to j 3 somebody that doesn't want it." But ( - Christian charity as "giving some- t . thing that you want to somebody that 1 wants it more." He might have gone . on to add that Christian love is giv) lng yourself to somebody that wants c )-ou; giving your sympathy, your fel- | j lowship, to somebody that needs it, ] 1 holding out the friendly hand to 3 some feeble grasp that must have It, j or else sink into the Slough of De3 1 spond.?Bishop Williams. ? | ? The Pious Fraud. 1 The wealth of the pious fraud, the I wolf in sheep's clothing, whose stolen I fortunes should be denounced; the men who help to build the churches, ' out at the same time exact their usurious returns from the tumbler I town, ramshackle, tenement houses. * i ?Rev. T. Schanfarber. j i - J Confidence Needed. * | Confidence is what we present-day " Christians need.?Rev. Edward Yate? ! 1 Hill * i Like Son, Father is Killed. Joseph A. Blundon, sixty-five, a prominent contractor, was killed by s a B. and O. train near his home at 3 Riverdale, Md., a suburb of Washing? ton, D. C. Fourteen years ago Waters 1 Blundon, the fourteen-year-old son of '< Joseph A. Blundon, was killed in the same manner, on the same spot and . j at the same hour. Mrs. Blundon has ' I never recovered from that first trag edy. It was feared the second will be more than she can survive. Mew Railway Begun. ; Construction has begun on the Mis? g sissippi Wentern, which is to run from Meridian to Natchez, 195 miles. j The Sunday=School INTERNATIONAL LESSON COMMENTS FOR SEPTEMBER 26. Subject: Temperance, 1 Cor. 10:2382?Golden Text: Rom. 15:2? Commit Verse 24?Commentary on the Day's Lesson. TIME.?57 A. D. PLACE.?Ephesus. EXPOSITION.?I. Let no man jeek his own, but each his neighbor's good, 23-30. Some of the Corinthians whose thoughts were entirely Decupled with themselves and their Dwn rights and privileges were saying: "All things are lawful to me." Paul, wno was governed by the Christian principle of love, and therefore thinking of the effect of his actions aot only upon himself, answers:! 'Yes, all things are lawful; but all things are not expedient Oor helpful, . or profitable)." A true Christian 3oes not ask what is permissible, but what is profltaWe. He asks, not what I have a right to do, but what will "edify," what will build up the Church of Christ, others as well as myself. "Is It permissible for a Christian to attend the theatre?" one asks. Better ask, Is it profitable, will It edify? "Is It permissible for a Christian to use the Lord's Day as he nthor Hnve?" Potto*- emir T? It profitable, will it edify? In all things "Let no man seek his own but each his neighbor's good." The believer should not be troubled with a morbid conscience, he should not fear to eat anything sold in the markets because of a suspicion it might have been offered to an idol and thus tainted. He need ask no question about that; for even if it had been offered to an idol it really belonged to the Lord; "for the earth is the Lord's, and the fulness thereof" (Ps. 24:1;' 60:12; 1 Tim. 4:4}. A glorious truth that, with many practical applications. If the earth is the Lord's It is ours also if we are His children, rhere are some to-day afraid to sit down to the Lord's table unless they hive first carefully examined every pne there and found that they are perfectly sound in doctrine and in life, lest they themselves be defiled, rhat is sadly confounding the O. T. laws with N. T. liberty. One caa never know perfectly, and coula therefore never have a conscience perfectly at rest. Christianity is not morbidness (2 Tim. 1:7; Rom. 8:15), rhe Christian might even go to a feast made by an unbeliever, and in case ne uiu ne suuuia etu wasiever was set before him, and not be haunt* sd by the torturing suspicion, "Perhaps this was offered to an idol." He need ask no question about this. But [f some one should say, "This hath been ofTered in sacrifice," then he 3hould not eat, not because he would himself be hurt, but for the sake of the one who said it, that he might not be hurt. His liberty could not be ludged by another's conscience, and he would still have liberty to eat as Tar as his own conscience was concerned. but his liberty would give place to love. Here are two great principles: (1) Every man's liberty must be determined by his own conscience, not another's (cf. Rom. 14r 2-10). (2) Liberty must give way before love. The question is not what have I liberty to do, but what doealove prompt me to do. If I do partake in grace, no one else whose opinion may differ about what is permissible has a right to speak evil of me concerning that for which I return thanks to God. But if I am a real Christian (cf. Jno. 13:35), I will do nothing that will cause' another tostumble just because I have a right to and no one else has a right to conlemn me for doing. n. Whatsoever ye do, do all tothe glory of God, 31-33. Paul lays Sown a very simple but very great principle for deciding what we may" Jo and how to do it, "Whether therefore ye eat or drink, or whatsoever ? J - ?il fflnrv nt ClnA " vuu, uu an iu buv givtj W4 viww* That principle will settle all our questions. Do nothing that you cannot do to God's glory, and whatever you decide to do, do it to His glory. Then ive can put away all troublings of our conscience and be free from all sense >? condemnation. But how many things professed Christians are doing' which, if they stopped and thought :hey would soon see that they could aot do to God's glory. ' If you have any Joubt about anything you are doing, isk yourself, can I do this to God's jlory? If you are not absolutely sure :hat you can then don't do it. And f you do it be sure you do it to God's ;lory. We should give no occasion :o stumbling to any one of the three ilasses into which God divides men, lews, Gentiles, the Church of God. Dur own pleasure* should never be . )ur rule of action, but the pleasure md profit of others, even all men. 3ur own profit should be utterly iglored (cf. Phil. 2:4), and we should ive for the profit of others, i. e., that hey may be saved. We should be ;lad to give up our liberty or any ight if some one thereby may be laved (cf. ch. 9:12, 22). How inensely Paul was occupied with one hing, the salvation of others (cf. *om. 10:1; 9:1-3; 11:14; 1 Cor. 9: !2). This is the Christian "principle )f total abstinence, abstinence for he purpose of saving others. Social Position. What satisfaction is it to have so:ial position and political preferment f our conscience is dulled??flev. fohn Hale Larry. Sacred Truths. The truth of affection is more sa:red than the truth of science.?Rev. ,yman Abbott. KeaJisni in War iTactice. The battleship lena, the magazine of which exploded in March, 1907, killing or injuring many and badly damaging the vessel itself, is being used as a target in an interesting corioc nf e-nnnerv trials at Toulon. France, by the armored cruiser Conde. The experiments are being conducted by Admiral de la Payrere, Minister of Marine. Dummies and live animais are placed on board the lena, and after each shot from the Conde the Minister boards the lena and carefully notes the effects of the Bring on them. Fishhook Causes Lamoreux's Death. Judge Silas W. Lamoreux, United States Land Commissioner under President Cleveland and a prominent Wisconsin steel manufacturer, died at l Beaver Dam, Wis. His death followed a long illness from sepsis arising from a small scratch on hjs hand from a fishhook Anti-Opium Law Annulled. The Chinese at Pekin report that Japan has annulled China's AntiOpium Growing law within the South Manchuria Railway zone. ^ i i n - ? isa"ii i*i f r*i