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ISSUED 8EMI-WEEELT. ^ i.m grist's SONS, Pnbu.hera. } : % .familj gtraspjw: 4or the jromolion ofl Iht jgolitiral, Sotial, Agricultural, and (Ttrnirotrtial gntyijats of tlit jgecmlt. {TEB*m'oLEl>ooApiYBf^Jo^rV?AN(!g" ESTABLISHED 1855. YORKVILLE, S. C., FRIDAY, JULY 29, 1904. 1STO. 61.' _ ? I The ? Substi Copyright, 1903, by CHAPTER III. f^lEORGE buckley did not come if i t0 supper as usu&1> and the i Vti meal passe<* awkwardly. Even the efforts Mrs. Hlllyer made to enliven the little group fell flat, and she soon found herself as moody as the others. The merchant gulped down a cup of Lot, black coiree, ate very ngurly of what was on his plate and then went out on the front veranda to smoke. The evening passed slowly, and about 10 o'clock the family retired. Hillyer could not sleep. His wife, tired as shfl was, was kept awake by her husband's constant movements. About midnight he got up, half dressed himself and took his hat. "Whar are you golu'?" asked bis wife. "I'm a-goin' down to satisfy myse'f about George," he said sheepishly. "Thar ain't no use tryln' to hide it; I'm worried." "Well, I'll be switched!" exclaimed his wife. "But I reckon you mought an n-oll T rinn't helleve me nor VOU nuther Is goin' to close our eyes tonight unless you do. I'll bet you'll find 'im In tied. No doubt he Jest went to the hotel an' got his supper rather than let us know he was drlnkln'. He still sleeps at the warehouse, don't he?" "Yes, he still rooms thar," answered Hillyer, "an' ef thar's no light I'll come right back. Sometimes when he's bothered he sets up an' works on his books." When her husband had gone Mrs. Hillyer crept up the stairs to Hortense Snowden's room. The girl was sitting up in bed. "Why, are you awake?" Mrs. Hillyer cried. "I declare, we are all a set o' night owls." "I haven't slept a wink," was the reply. "Do you know, every sound in your room comes right up that stove flue. I could hear the creaking of your bed, an' just now I heard you talking. Oh, Aunt Martha, where do you think It's going to end?" "I'll end In a madhouse ef It keeps up," said Mrs. Hillyer, with a little, forced laugh. "I'm goin' to crawl in yore bed. I'm not to say afeard o' sperlts, but I am of niggers an' tramps. Phew! I'm all of a shiver. Let's cover up. Hortie, you've always said I was a good woman. Well, I try to be, but I hain't perfect by a long shot I say I hain't perfect an' I mean It You'd say so ef you could see through my outside. I've got one whalin' big fault, an' that Is suspicion. Somehow I cayn't root it out. Now, I like George Buckley as well as you or Mr. Hlllyer does, but what on earth has made Mr. Hlllyer so wrapped up In that boy an' the whole layout o' Buckleys? Why, he's as crazy as a bedbug right now about this trial an' George's condition. Oh, I know you kin say he likes the boy an' all that, but thar are heaps o' boys In the county an' heaps o' folks that's Jest as worthy of assistance as the Buckleys." "Oh, Aunt Martha, you surely don't mean"? "I don't mean nothln'," Interrupted Mrs. Hlllyer, "but I'm as sure o' one thing as I am that I got my cold feet agin yore'n, an' that Is that Mr. Hlllyer hain't told me everything about them ^Juckleys. He may think I wouldn't keep It, but he hain't let me on to his game." Hortense had no observation to make, and they lay silent for several minutes. Then the girl spoke: "George could really bear It much better If he had not met Lydia Cranston. I don't blame him for caring for her. Aunt Martha. She's a splendid girl; we all like her; she's just as frank and open as can be. She's always making fun of her father's family pride. He's got a Cranston tree In the library, but Lydla gets all mixed up when she tries to tell any one who her connections are. I was just thinking. She'll be apt to be disgusted with George If she hears that this has driven him to drink, and"? "Don't you bother about that," retorted Mrs. Hlllyer. "Thar never was a woman that turned agin a man she cared fer on that account; they'll make excuses fer 'em, an' the Lord knows she could tish up a good many to justify George. I know I could. Pore fellow! Jest think o' him tryin' an' tryln' to git his head above water an' that old scamp of a daddy Jerkin' 'im down? an' right now when he was glttin' sech a fine start. He could 'a' married that Cranston gal ef this thing hadn't come up?I mean he could in time, beca'se It was In 'im." CHAPTER IV. HlILLYER went out Into the starlit night and made his way down to the business portion of the town. He was about to pass the barroom run by Luke Hillhouse. when, hearing the clicking of billiard balls and the rapping of cues, lie looked in at the screened door. Two countrymen, without their couts and under broad slouched hats, were playing at the green table, over which hung a glass lamp under a tin shade constructed from a new dlshpan with a bole cut In the bottom, and three or four half drunken negroes were engaged In betting small amounts on a fortune wheel against the wall. Seeing the merchant, Hillhouse, a fat red faced man with a dyed and waxed y WILL N. HARBEN, Author of "Abner Dan* iel." "The . Land of the ilITP l%l IV North Walk Myatery," Etc. HARPER BROTHERS A j mustache, came round to him from i oemna toe touuier. i "Lookin' fer George, I'll bet," be said In a friendly, half confidential i tone. "He's jest gone, squire." Hillyer had years before been a justice of i the peace. "I went with 'im clean to the door of the warehouse an' seed that he went In." "Then he was"? "The wust I ever seed, squire. Oh, he could walk all right an' kuowed what he was about, but he's a reg'lar rlppln' terror. He come In here, I reckon, about an hour ago an' tuck a couple o' drinks an' then set down over thar at the little table. I 'lowed he was asleep, he was so quiet, an' I reckon everybody else did, fer Bascom Truitt from over in the mountains come In an' begun to talk about old man Buckley's sentence. He hadn't said a word that was wrong, dui George heard it an' riz suddenly an' come up to him. 'Yo're a-sayin' that to insult me,' he said, right in Trultt's face. As big as Truitt is you could 'a' knocked 'lm down with a feather, but he told George as straight as he could that he never knowed he was thar an' didn't mean no harm nohow; but, sir, George hauled away an' hit 'lm in the jaw. It popped like the report of a pistol, an' Truitt mighty nigh went down. We parted 'em without any trouble. In fact, Truitt thinks the world an 'all of Mm. George did Mm a favor a long time back, an' instead o* glttin' mad about it Truitt is worryin' over offendin' the boy. He would have apologized to Mm, but we all persuaded Mm to wait till George was at hisse'f." The merchant took a long, trembling oreath. "I wish, Hillhouse," he said, "that you wouldn't let Mm have any more liquor if you kin git around it." "Git around it?" laughed the barkeeper. "If you'll show me a mixer o' drinks in this county that would refuse that feller when he's off I'd like to see Mm. It would cost Mm his life. He's one man, squire, that ortn't to tetch a drap, an' between you an' me I don't think anything but this scrape of his daddy's would have started Mm. George Buckley is the high strung sort that makes either the finest citizens ur the scum o' creation." "I reckon yo're right," agreed Hillyer, and, turning, he went down to the warehouse, which was In the next block below. He found the front door ajar and saw a light burning in his clerk's room In the rear. Entering and softly treading over the rough floor, which was strewn witn cnan auu grain and the metal ties of cotton bales, Hillyer stood In the doorway of the young man's room. In a cloud of cigar smoke George Buckley sat near a little table, without his coat, his collar off and his powerful neck showing through his open shirt. He glared up at his employer and then rose to his feet and looked straight at him. "George," the old man began in a voice that quivered through excessive embarrassment, "I was troubled so much about you that I couldn't sleep, so I got up an' come down. I seed yore light an' couldn't keep from comin' in." "I don't see that you need bother about me," was Buckley's surprising retort. "I'm no blood kin of yours, Mr. Hillyer." "George. I'm as good a friend to you as I know how to be, an' I jest want you to know that, an' ef thar's any way under the sun that I kin help you I'll do it." "Then let'a me 'n' you come to an understanding," said Buckley. "I don't know exactly how to size you up. I've been thinking about you all this evening, and if 1 don't understand you better than I have done for teveral years you and I will part. You can keep the money I've made and saved up, and if I could do it I'd throw the education you gave me in your face. My intelligence has been insulted. You have done all these things for me under the pretense of love, but It was not that. Now let's understand each other." Hlllyer turned as white as death could have made him. His eyes sank to the floor, and, with a halting step, he went to the young man's bed across the room and sat down on the edge of it. "You do me a great wrong, George," he faltered. "If you knowed my heart"? "Well, that's all I'm asking. I want : to know what it all means. I tell you I'm no fool. It's not whisky in me talking either, for I've puzzled over it for years, an' now that this thing has happened?an' I don't care whether I stay in your town anyway?I'm goln' to be told the truth. What did you > give me my education for, and this Btart in the world? Why, as I look at you gazing ut me now it seems to 1 me you are the very personification of the fate that has mocked me ever since I I was 01(1 eilOUgll 10 Know 1 >vua unvc. Curse it. what's the matter with you? Can't you talk?" Ilillyer rose to his feet. "I'm goin' to leave you. George," he said. "Tomorrow we'll talk this over. You are in no condition to"? Taking a swift, steady stride forward, the young man laid his hands on the merchant's shoulders and forced [ him back to his seat on the bed. "No," [ he said; "you don't leave here tonight until you have answered my question and satisfied me." Hlllyer leaned forward, his face In his hands, and groaned. "Then. George, I'll be obliged to speak of something that has not passed my lips In thirty years, but maybe It is best fer me to do It, conslderln' everything. Set down. I kin talk better If you won't stand so close an' look at me so straight. You've had yore trouble, an' ef you have the heart I think you have you'll be sorry fer me, an' me an' you maybe will be truer friends in the future. Gi' me time. I'll git It out" George Buckley threw himself into the chair at the table. There was a pause. A train passed on the track within twenty yards of the rear door of the warehouse, and the floor shook. A pistol shot was heard, followed by the yelping of a wounded dog at the other end of the street The town slept " Ka/?>\ r? mnr/ihonf In Q VjrCUI UCgUil me uiCivuuui. am M Btrange husky voice, "you are now meetln' the biggest trouble of yore whole life. I was jest about yore age, an' everything was about as promisln', when my trouble overtook me. George" ?the old man gulped?"did you ever hear that I?killed a feller Jest at the close o' the war?" Buckley stared steadily, his brows raised. "I think?yes, I knew about it But I didn't think you"? The young man seemed unable to formulate his thoughts into words. "I knew you were acquitted and that nobody blamed you." "Yes, I was acquitted, but how?ah how? You wonder why you was s? "2?killed a feller jest at the close o' the war." lected to go through yore present trial, an' I've wondered many an' many a time why mine was put on me. The whole world thinks I don't bother about it. but few folks know about the vermin that's gnawin' at the secret souls of their neighbors. Why, my own wife don't know my feelln's. I reckon she thinks I'm as happy as the average man. That's the trouble with jest?jest that sort of a thing. It hain't what folks will dare mention to the person concerned, an' somehow he never kin bring it up. I said I'd never had It mentioned to me, but I did about five year ago. I'd been makin' a sort of a pet of u little, yaller haired child stoppin' at the Johnston house with her ma for the summer, an' one day, settin' up thar in the office, I tuck ? ..... 1. .?/w, C!I?A oAntor onnlpmoH cr uii iii,> micc. kjut ovii?4 ovju.tuu^v. off, an' when I asked 'er what was the matter she said she'd heard I'd killed u man. It set me back so that I didn't detain 'er, an' she looked scared ever' time 1 passed whar she was at. Huh! Talk about trouble, George, yore'n hain't a circumstance! I had jest got married, an' ever'thing looked bright. "It was at an election. The feller was a friend o' mine, but a few years younger. We was on opposite sides an' had sharp words. The lie was passed, an' then we come together. Some o' the crowd parted us, but I was a ragin' demon. I was a drlnkln' man then?tbat is, I took a dram occasionally?an' I got full an' went home fer a revolver. Then I set out to find 'im. It was about 10 o'clock at night when I run acrost 'im at a livery stable, a old shack at t'other end o' the town. He was In the back end with Hank Williams, the man that run It, an' I heard 'Im tellin' Hank good night an' Beed 'im a-comin'. I didn't know what I was a-doin'?as God Is my judge, I didn't. I hated 'im with the hate of hell, an' I wanted?I wanted 'im out of the way. I drawed as he come nigh, an' I think I cussed 'im. I remember he was a-gazln' right at me? senred?scared michtv nieh out 0' his senses. He raised his han's sorter, like a body will to ward off anything, but the revolver was aimed right, an' cocked an' easy on trigger, an' it went off." Hillyer paused. His hands were folded one in the other, and both were quivering. George Buckley was staring at him with bewildered fixity, his long, slender hand stayed in his heavy hair. "I'm sorter scared at the sound o' my own voice," said Hillyer. "It's like somebody else was a-tellin' about It I hain't even whispered It to myse'f. An' in all my prayers in regard to it I never have spoke his name ur the name o' the crime. I always said, 'You know what I mean. Lord. Show me how to unload it!' Well"?Hillyer swallowed? "he fell dead in his tracks. I was sober in a second. I heard Williams a-comln', an' when he seed me an' the smokin' pistol an' my deed he give a little cry an' started to break an' run, but I th'owed the revolver down an' called to Mm an' begged Mm not to leave. Then I stood In a hoss stall while he went an' examined?the body. I couldn't tetch it Then he come back to me an' told me Lynn Hambrlght was a corpse. Thar was a pile o' dirty hay In the stall, an' I remember I Jest fell on it, face downward, an' begun to cry an' beg the Lord to save me. "Williams had a heart like a child's. He stood thar an' watched an' listened to my ravin's of fear an' regret till all at once he began tryln' to pacify me. He told me I'd come clear; that it was In self defense; that he had Beed it all an' would go on the stand an' testify in my behalf. I know now?in fact, I knowed when I heard him on the stand ?that he was lyin' to save my neck, but I wanted to escape the penalty an' couldn't 'a' stopped 'im. The fear o' meetin' my God was awful. I wasn't even Jailed. It was In unsettled times Jest after the war. My folks was prominent, an' public sympathy fer me, young as I was, was high. The hardest thing of all to bear was the grief of Hambrieht's mother. It looked like It ud mighty nigh kill 'er. He was her youngest an' pet Her other boys never amounted to anything an' had gone west an' left 'er. Finally I come clear In the eyes o' the world, but, as God knows, not In my own. That crime is before me, wakln' or sleepln'. I often dream that I never done it, an' daylight gives that the lie. Seemed like ever'thlng I went Into turned out money, an' I prospered, though I did aH I could to alleviate suffering an' help the different churches. Mrs. Hambright jest had a little farm over In the mountains that turned out a bare llvln', an' I sent a friend to 'er to offer her help, but she Indignantly refused if cVio'H onmp in tfivrn nnee In awhile. but she'd never come nigh whar I was at Then I heard she was tryln' to git a pension through congress. Her husband had claimed to be a Union man, an' that he was forced Into the Confederate ranks, whar he fit an' was killed, an' somebody told 'er she was entitled to a pension. Old Trabue tuck up the claim an* writ on about It to Washington, an' one day he happened to tell me that be had had a final decision an' that she couldn't git It an' that he hated to have to tell 'er the outcome. Then I got him to pretend to her that the pension was allowed, an' I paid the $15 a month. I've been doln' It fer twenty year now, an' It has kept 'er from sufferln', but I'm In mortal dread o' her findln' out whar the money comes from an' sellln' her place to repay It She's still In good health over thar In the mountains. About once a year, generally In the fall, she comes In town, but she shirks meetln' me. Somehow I always breathe freer when she's ^one out o' town. The sight of 'er fetches It all back wuss than anything else. I've tried to find out what she thinks about It now, but she never mentions the subject to a soul. I've suffered the torments of the damned. I made a public confession In meetln', as well as I could, to show my contrition without lmplicatln' Hank Williams, but It didn't do a speck o' good. All the members swarmed round me and patted me on the back an' said I was nigh the throne, but the'r nats lest seemed to beat my guilt' deeper in. I was afeard o' the slightest sound at night or my shadow In daytime an' was always countln' on bein' tuck off by disease. One mornln', in shavin', I noticed a little red spot on my cheek an' tuck it fer a cancer. I was shore then that the Lord intended to make me die a slow, loathsome death, an' all at once I felt weak at the knees an' couldn't hardly stand. My wife come an' found me. I didn't tell her about my cancer, an' she thought I was jest sick from some'n' I'd eat, an' when the doctor come I was afeard to tell 'im about the Bore place. He left some medicine, an' I made out like I tuck It, but I th'owed it away. After that I'd make a point to stop an' talk to 'im every day to see ef he'd notice my face an' speak of it, but he didn't. I've started up to his office fifty times an' backed oirt, jest beca'se I epuldn't bear to be told that it was a cancer. Howsomever, one day, when it was more Inflamed than ever, I went to his office?as weak as a sick kitten, feelln' jest like a man goln' to the scaffold. I went In an' set down an' waited fer 'im to git through with somebody else, an' when he turned to me I said, 'Doc, I want you to take a look at my face.' He put,on his specks an' examined it; then he laughed an' said: 'I'll bet a dol lar you thought it was a cancer. Fonts nowadays Is more anxious to raise cancers 'an they are good taters.' 'But ain't It?' I axed 'lm. 'No,' said he, 'It hain't nothin' o' the sort. Ef you'll quit rubbln* It every minute In the day an' stop thlnkln' about It, It'll go away In a week.' I felt as light as a feather when I left him, but it wasn't twentyfour hours 'fore I had some other ailment. "I was always lookln' fer the Lord to show designs agin me. Fer one thing, no children come to me 'n' Martha, an' I interpreted that as meanln' that, sence I'd put life out o' the world, I shouldn't fetch it in. Most married folks worry when they hain't got some offspring, but It worried me powerful. I never seed a happy child or a proud mother an' father without feelln' the Lord's rebuke. Oh, George, George, I've led the most awful life that was ever led by a human bein', it seems to me?an' I kept it all to myself, smllln' along with the rest, an' tryin' to find some loophole of escape. Now here's whar you come In, an' you'll think it odd, but I've started in to explain In full, an* I'm goin' to do It. You know I used to pass yore f?a's place pretty often, goin' to my river mill an' farm, an' at the mill I frequently aeed you comln' on that swaybacked old mare, a-straddle of yore bag o' shelled corn, barefooted even in winter, with yore hands an' feet cracked with the cold. It was common report about how bad you was treated by yore daddy an' what a awful character he had. Maybe you remember the talk me 'n' you had, an' how you told me how anxious you was to git schoolln' an' books. That was the fust day after my crime that I got a beam of spiritual light It come all over me like a flash that ef I could take you oufn yore degradation an' raise you to a respectable, useful place Id life I could atone In part for whnt I'd done. Do you remember that day, George r George Buckley started, raised bis | eyes from tbe floor In a sharp stare at the haggard face before him and said: "Yes, sir, I remember that day." "Well, I couldn't git away from the , Idea. As I say, It was the fust bit of light I'd had. The following winter you remember my proposal. Somehow I I was even then afeard you'd refuse, but you went off to school. An' then the weight and bitterness of my heart seemed to lessen, for every report I had was glorious. You stood head; you made the best speeches; you had the most friends among teachers an' pupils. Oh, George, George, you don't know ( what It meant to me; you seemed to be totin' me out of a rushin' river?a river . rushin' toward hell! Then you know about the Job I give you here after'you graduated; every dollar you laid up an' ' properly invested was proof to me that ' God had heard my long prayer an' was 1 answerin' it in his own way. I was 7 puttin' into life a man fer one I bad ! tuck out Only one hitch occurred, an* that was when they threatened yore pa ' with arrest fer pennin' up them hogs. Then you got desperate an' started in to 1 drinkln'. But we squashed that, an' it 1 went on smooth again till this?this ' late matter. And now?oh, George, I'm afeard?I'm afeard the Lord or the 7 devil, or both combined, have been leadin' me through all this road o' ?- J? A- foil +V.O 1 promise jesi iu uruei iu ici mc mn harder. I've come here tonight to pray to you?yes, to you?to save me. If you go down, I do too. Now you see what it all meant an' what it means to me. I'm in yore hands, my boy. As God's agent, you hold me In the palm o' yore hand." The old man's voice broke. He made an effort to say something more, but choked up, and, with bis gaze on the ragged rug in front of him, he sat quite motionless except for his heaving shoulders. George Buckley bent forward, his hands tightly clasping each other. Without a word he rose and went with a steady step out Into the darkness of the warehouse. Hlllyer heard his crunching tread as he walked back and forth over the grain strewn door, and he knelt beside the bed and tried to pray the prayer that had rung in his old brain for thirty years, but somehow the worn words refused to come. George Buckley's silence was against him. His long delayed doom lurked In the dark silence of the great bouse, and In a moment George Buckley would calmly bring it forth and show it to him. Suddenly from the darkness he heard a stifled cry as of pain; then a heavy weight went down?George Buckley had fallen. A cold sweat broke out on the merchant's face. He feared he knew not what, but he feared. Was his doom about to show itself in a more tragic shape than he bad ever dreamed of Its taking? He stood up and slowly crept rather than walked to the door of the room. Standing there, he found his voice and cried out; "George, are you hurt?" tT,~ kowlil* thrnnvh thn ' HID TUH.ir iau5 uutuuaj ? big room. There was no answer. "George! George! Are yon ttaar?" Still no response. Hillyer leaned against the door fac- 1 ing. His knees were, weak; he was ' about to sink to the floor. Then he heard George Buckley calling to him. "Mr. Hillyer," came In a faint voice, ; "please bring the lamp back here!" The lamp! Great God. what could that mean? What did Buckley Intend to show him?what? Taking the lamp In his quivering hand, the merchant went back In the rear. At first he could see nothing, j for he was dazed by the light, but he groped on. Presently he came upon Buckley lying on his side behind a great pile of corn in bags. "I'm sorry to bother you," the young man said humbly, "but I've got my foot caught in a bole In the floor, and I can't possibly get it out." "Oh, George!" the merchant gasped, and,, placing the lamp on the floor, he raised the young man in his arms, and ' together they managed to release the imprisoned member. "Thank you, Mr. Hillyer." The arm of the young man still lay on the old man's shoulder, and Instead of removing it he pressed It down tenderly. "I want to say something," he said, "but I'm afraid I can't. Mr. Hillyer, you hav^^iade a man of me tonight. You've tuflght me a great lesson. You met vour trouble as early In life as I am meeting mine, and yet you have borne yours like a soldier for thirty years. I've been a coward, weak and shirking, but from tonight on I'm going to tight as you have done. You've saved tne, Mr. Hillyer." Buckley turned the old man's face toward him. "You know I never had a father I could love nnd respect, but I love and venerate you, sir. You can count on me, Mr. Hillyer. I was drunk when I spoke as I did Just now. I'm sober now. I hope you will pardon me." "Oh, George!" That was all the old man could say; he had begun to sob like a child. Buckley took up the lamp. "Yes," he said ns he led the way back to his room, "I'm all right now, Mr. Hillyer. An hour ago I had nothing to encourage me to keep on, but you have set Va?? lrtnr* Irnnhla hufl me on my ikki. x uul >uue UvUU.v. ?. made a good man of you; perhaps Providence Intends to give me the same sort of chance. If that's the plan, I'll accept the terms, .for I'd go through It all to be as good as you are, even when my head Is white and I stoop over the grave. What you did In blind, youthful passion was nothing?nothing! My actions tonight on account of what I cannot help were simply Insanity." TO BE CONTINUED. It Is the truths we do and not the ones we Indorse that save us. W People who are always trying to be some one else succeed In being nobody at all. LIVERPOOL. Greatest Seaport In the World. Hit! PAN-PKKSBYTKRIAN COUNCIL Interesting Facts About a Wonderful City?A Harbor Full of Shipping? Sessions of the Council?Sermon by Dr. Watson?Dr. Neville Preaches At Birkenhead?A Visit to the An 1 T* _ r L _ SVLI - II .i cionx i own ot onoiwr?wxnsr matters. Correapondnc* of tht Torkrllle Enquirer. London, July 13.?Since leaving Yorkville, I have spent over a week In Liverpool. In fact, this was, in one sense, my objective point, for I came to this city as a delegate to the Pan-Presbyterian council, which met here on June 28, and continued in 3esslon till July 7th, Liverpool is one of the important cities of the world. It is said there is a larger volume of shipping business done in Liverpool and New York than in any other two cities in the world. Liverpool is situated on the Mersey river which affords an outlet for all kinds of vessels to the sea, which is fifteen or twenty miles away, rhey claim over 700,000 Inhabitants in the city proper and taking in the suburban towns there are about a million people. Birkenhead, which is lust across the river has about 200,000 people. The city has 63 docks, including some on the Birkenhead side, the river fronts on the Liverpool side being seven and one-fourth miles long. The city has a floating quay on the river, 2,500 feet long, approached by seven bridges, the longest in the world. There are hundreds of ships here all the time from all parts of the wdrld, :omlng and going all the time. I went down to the river one afternoon to see the "Baltic," the largest ship In the world. She was Just on the eve >f making her maiden voyage to New Fork. This ship is 726 feet long and nas a capacity of 28,000 tons. She can :arrv 3,000 passengers with a crew of 150. It takes about 225 tons of coal a Jay to carry her over the sea. There seems to be a great deal of ouslness going on in Liverpool all the time. Much of our cotton Is shipped to this place, though very little seems to be manufactured here. I visited the Cotton Exchange with a friend who lived in the city, and while there [ thought of what a curse such Institutions have been to the people. But Liverpool has other things ffesides business enterprises. She has Institutions of learning and charitable Institutions. She also has splendid :hurches and beautiful parks and flower gardens. I was in several of the churches and visited one of the parks In the city, Sefton park, which has In it 720 acres of land. This park was (or rather the land) was bought from the Earl of Sefton for about a million and a quarter of dollars and was laid out at an additional cost of about $700,000. It has many attractive features, lakes, groves of trees, flowers ana Dirus, cit*i xucic <uc ui<u*/ <? ? halls and public buildings In the city. Also many large and well equipped hotels. The city has a substantial look and seems to be rapidly growing. But what about the Pan-Presbyterian council? This is a body which Is composed of representatives of all the Reformed churches In the world holding the Presbyterian system; or at least all who will come into it, for It is strictly a voluntary organization and exercises no authority over the churches as to doctrine or life. But It has been a power for good along many lines. It has exerted a mighty Influence In bringing the Presbyterian families of the world closer together. In this way, we have been able to look each other In the face and appreciate the things which belong to us all, and these are the important things. This council embraces branches of the Presbyterian church in the following countries: Austria, Hungary, Belgium, France, Greece, Italy, Russia, Switzerland, England, Scotland, Ireland, Formosa, Africa, Canada, United States, Mexico, Australia, Jamaica, and other countries, and represents a constituency of about twenty million people. This council meets every five years. The first one was held In Edinburgh in 1877, and councils have been held since that time in Philadelphia, Belfast, London, Toronto, Glasgow, Washington and Liverpool. The next council is to be held In New York in 1909. The opening sermon at the council in Liverpool was preached by Dr. John Watson (Ian MacLaren). All of us who had never heard him were very anxious to hear him, as we had read much from his facile and versatile pen. I think he Is a better writer than preacher?though he Is a good preacher. He had a magnificent audience to preach to. The council met in the Philharmonic Hall, one of the largest If not the largest in the " * * 1 ~ *%?11 itpnn "111 Of Ohnilt cuy, ana mis vast nan ?ao jugt ..... full. Principal Caven of Canada, the president of the council, delivered a very fine address at the opening service Just after Dr. Watson's sermon. There were many fine addresses, and some that were not so good, delivered during the sittings of the council. The city treated the council In a royal manner. In addition to the hospitality displayed in the homes of the people to the delegates, several public entertainments were given to us. On one evening the Lord Mayor of Liverpool and the Lady Mayoress gave us a superb reception at the town hall where delicious and elaborate refreshments were served and where delightful music was dispersed. There seemed to be a thousand people at this reception, and It was the best of its kind I think I ever attended. I believe it was ahead of the one given In Washington to the council by President McKinley five years ago, and which I had the pleasure of attending. Mr. W. W. Ruthenford, M. P., and Mrs. Ruthenford also gave the council a garden party at their beautiful home on the suburbs of the city. This was a great success. Beautiful and interesting exercises were held on the lawn ? and refreshments were served under a large tent The council was given a luncheon every day at the Adelphi hotel, one of the finest in the city. This plan was adopted to save time, as many of the delegates were being entertained by people who lived some distance from the place of meeting. The majority of the speakers at the council I think were from America and Scotland. These twr> countries furnish the strongest branches of the Presbyterian tree. I had the opportunity while in Liverpool to see a little Into the home life of the people. I was entertained by Mr. and Mrs. Edwin Shepherd, 120 Salisbury Road. They call a great many of their streets roads over this way. I don't know that I was ever treated more hospitably and kindly than by Mr. and Mrs. Shepherd, and it all seemed to come right from the heart. There Is a simplicity in the people's living that our people would do well to imitate?what they have is nicely prepared, but they do not have the variety that our southern people have, and consequently they do not have the waste. There is also a freedom in the home here t^hich is very refreshing. The people want you to make yourself at home and there is a minimum of formality and stiffness in the home life which finds a congenial response in this scribe's heart Our people in the south have too much on their tables, i. e., when they have company. It would display better taste and would be more conducive to health no doubt, if they had fewer things and would not have them so rich. Though I must say that I have never In my limited travels had better things to eat than the dear old south affords. One seldom comes across hot bread over here, and many in our party (they are all from the south) have frequently longed for a hot biscuit I was in Liverpool one Sunday and in the morning I preached in one of the Presbyterian churches in Birkenhead. I had some misgivings in regard to the service before I entered upon it, but I don't know where I have preached with more satisfaction to myself; but the people helped me very materially in the splendid attention which they gave. I enjoyed the service very much, and I also enjoyed being in the home of the pastor for a while. I dined with him and his pleasant family. He is from Wales. The council had no sessions on Saturday, July 2. This was my birthday, but this was not the reason the council took holiday. They thought the delegates would like to have a day off. Several of us took advantage of this day and made a trip to Chester, which is a very interesting and ancient city. The old Roman wall which was built around the city hundreds of years ago is still there and in good condition. We walked on top of this wail for about a quarter of a mile. There is a fine Cathedral here which viaWoH Wp also visited the spot where Matthew Henry, the great commentator, is buried and the church in which he preached. This house is now owned by the Unitarians. Just think of it It is almost sacrilegious. From Chester we went in a coach to Eaton Hall, the home of the Duke of Westminister. This is a stately and magnificent place, one of the finest I have ever seen, with hundreds of acres. This duke is one of the richest men in England. From this place we drove to Hawarden, the home of Mr. Gladstone. I was especially glad to visit this -place, just because it was the home of such a great man. It is a fine estate. We walked through ft on the beautiful road that goes from one end to the other. This whole drive was delightful, through the beautiful country, which is all like a garden or a park. We left Liverpool on the day the council adjourned, so I did not attend the closing exercises. I was sorry to leave the place, because they made us feel so much at home there. Liverpool has had a reputation for hospitality a long time. Here is an extract from John Wesley s journm. "July 15, 1764. Preached at Liverpool. Have always observed more courtesy and humanity In this town than at most seaports In England." On July 7th, we cartie to London where we have been since. My next letter will be on London. W. G. NEVELLiE. Why a Bird Killer Put Up His Gun. One of our best practical farmers related to us the other day how he came to change his mind about killing birds. He said he formerly took a great deal of pleasure with his gun and dogs. About six months after coming to the territory he told his wife he would go out and kill a few quail. It was about 4 o'clock, so calling his dogs he started out on his own farm. He soon shot three quail, and his wife knowing that if he got thoroughly ' ' *-J *- u~ nf trame he interesieu m uic ? would be out till long after supper time, persuaded him to come back to the house and they would have supper, when he could go again. "All right," said the farmer; "I will dress these and we'll have them for supper." His wife remarked on the full ness of the craws of the birds, and on opening one It was found packed full of chinch bugs! Out of curiosity they counted and found over four hundred dead chinch bugs In the craw of one quail! Said the farmer In relating the circumstance to us: "I Just cleaned up the gun and have not shot a bird since, and If you'll come down to my place of a morning or evening and see the birds coming to my farm you'll think they knew their friends."?Hennery (Okla.) Clipper.