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The Gall of the Cumberlands I By Gharles Neville Buck % With Illustrations from Photographs of Scenes in the Play (Copyright, tpi). by W. J. ft Co) < SYNOP3IS. On MiseAr creek Sally Miller finds Seorge Lescott, a landscape painter, unconscious. Spicer South, head of the family, tells Samson South and Sally that Jesse Purvy has been shot and that Samson Is suspected of the crime. Samson denies It. The shooting of Jesse Purvy breaks the truce In the Hollman-South feud. Samson reproves Tamarack Spicer for telling Sally that Jim Hollman is hunting with bloodhounds the man who hot Purvy. The bloodhounds lose the trail at Spicer South's door. Lescott discovers artistic ability in Samson. While ketchlng with Leecott on the mountain. Tamarack discovers Samson to a Jeering crowd of mountaineers. Samson thrashes him and denounces him as the "trucebuster" who shot Purvy. Lescott tries to ersuade Samson to go to New York with kirn and develop his talent. Sally, loyal but heartbroken, furthers Lescott's efforts. At Wile McCager's dance Samson tells the South clan that he is going to leave the mountains. CHAPTER VII?Continued. Lescott stayed on a week after that Imply In deference to Samson's insistence. To leave at once might savor of flight under fire, but when the week was out the painter turned his horse's head toward town, and his train swept him back to the Bluegraes and the East. A nuiat r\f iinKenlfon onH Hoodl V XX (|U1CV VI UUUt VUVM MUU routine settled down on Misery. The conduct of the Souths In keeping hands off, anci acknowledging the justice of Tamarack Splcer's jail sentence, had been their answer to the declaration of the Hollmans in letting Samson ride into and out of Hixon. The truce was established. When, a short time later, Tamarack left the country to become a railroad brakeman, Jesse Purvy passed the word that hie men must, until further orders, desist from violence. The word had crept about that Samson, too, was going away, and, If this were true, Jesse felt that his future would be more secure than his past. Purvy believed Samson guilty, despite the exoneration of the hounds. Lescott had sent a box of books, and . _ Pemscc -hetf?ttkos * -issuer eve*-te Hixon, and brought them back. \ He devoured them all from title rp&ge to finis line, and many of them ?be went back to, and digested again. | He wrestled long and gently witn ^his uncle, struggling to win the old man's consent to his departure. But 'JSpicer South's brain was no longer vnlactl/* Tl'hnt had h?on trnnrl Annnch tfor the past was good enough for the Mature. Nevertheless, he arranged affairs 60 that his nephew should be able to meet flnancal needs, and to go where ho chose in a fashion befitting a South. November came in bleakly, with a raw and devastating breath of fatality. The smile died from horizon to horizon, and for days cold rains beat and lashed the forests. And, toward the end of the month, came the day which Samson had set for his departure. At the threshold, with the saddlebags over his left forearm and the rifle In his hand, he paused. His uncle stood x at his elbow and the boy put but his hand. "Good-by, Unc' Spicer," was all he said. The old man, who had been his second lather, shook hands. His face, too, was expressionless, but he felt that he was saying farewell to a soldier of genius who was abandoning the field. And he loved the boy with all the centered power of an isolated heart. A half-mile along the road, Samson halted and dismounted. There, in a small cove, surrounded by,a tangle of triers ana DiacKDerry Dusnes, siooa a small and dilapidated "meeting house" and churchyard, which he must visit. He made his way through the rough undergrowth to the unkempt half-acre, and halted before the leaning headBtones which marked two graves. With a sudden emotion, he 6wept the back of his-hand across his eyes. He did, not remove his hat, but he stood in the drizzle of cold rain for a moment of silence, and then he said: "Pap, I hain't fergot. I don't want ye ter think thet I've fergot." Before he arrived at the Widow Miller's, the rain had stopped and the clouds had broken. Sally opened the door, and smiled. She had spent the day nerving herself for this farewell, and at least until the moment of leave-taking she wou'd be 6afe from tears. The Widow Miller and her son soon left them alone, and the boy and girl sat before the blazing logs. For a time, an awkward silence fell between them. At last, the boy rose, and went over to the corner where be had placed his gun. He took it up and laid It on the hearth between them. "Sally," he said, "I wants ter tell ye some things thet I hain't never said ter nobody else. In the fust place, 1 vii tor Uoon thla hvnr pnn fop V? d II CO J V ?vv|? ? ?- -rf"? Omm >v? me." The girl's eyes widened with surprise. "Hain't ye a-goin' ter take hit with ye, Samson?" "He shook his head. "I hain't a-goln' ter need hit down below. Nobody don't use 'em down ? 4 F thai*. I've got my pistol, an' I reckon thet will be enough." , "I'll take good keer of hit," she promised. * The boy took out of bis pockets a box of cartridges and a small package tied iu a greasy rag. "Hit's loaded, Sally, an* hft's cleaned an hit's greased. Hit'e ready fer use." Again, she nodded In silent assent, ; and tbe boy began speaking in a slow, ! careful voice, which gradually mounted into tense emotion. "Sally, thet thar gun was my pap's. When he lay a-dyln', he gave hit tpr me, an' he gave me a Job ter do with hit. When I was a little feller, I used ter set up 'most all day, pollshin' thet gun an' gittin' hit ready. I used ter go out in the woods, an' practice shootin' hit at things, tell I learned how ter handle hit. I reckon thar hain't many fellers round here thet kin beat me uow." He paused, and the girl hastened to corroborate. "Thar hain't none, Samson." "There hain't nothjn' in the world, Sally, thet I prizes like 1 does thet gun. Hit's,got a Job ter do. . . . Thar hain't but one person in the world I'd trust hit with. Thet's you. ... I wants ye ter keep hither me, an' ter Keep nit reaay. . . . mey miuno round hyar I'm quittin', but I hain't. I'm comin' back, an', when I comes,'I'll need this hyar thing?an' I'll need hit bad." He took up the rifle, and ran his hand caressingly along its lock and barrel. "I don't know when I'm a-comin'," he said, slowly, "but, when I calls fer this, I'm shore a-goin' ter need hit quick. I wants hit ter be ready fer me, day or night. Maybe, nobody won't know I'm hyar. . . . Maybe, I won't want nobody ter know. . . . But, when I whistles out thar like a whippoorwill, I wants ye ter slip out?an' fotch me thet gun!" He stopped, and bent forward. His face was tense, and hie eyes were glinting with purpose. His lips were tight set and fanatical. "Samson," said the girl, reaching out and taking the weapon from his hands, "ef I'm alive when ye comes, I'll do hit. I promise ye. An'," she added, "ef I hain't alive, hlt'U be standin' thar in thet corner. I'll grease hit, an' keep hit loaded, an' when ye calls, I'll fotch hit out thar to ye." The youth nodded. "I miput come any time, but likely as not 111 her ter come a-flghtin' when I comes " Next, he produced an envelope. "This here is a letter I've done writ ter myeelf," he explained. He drew out the sheet, and read: "Samson, come back." Then he handed the missive to the gfrl. "Thet there is addressed ter me, in care of Mr. Le8Cott. .j . fit anything happens?ef Unc' /SplcCT" needs me^I ???; "When l Whistles Like a wnippoor will, Fetch Me That Gjn." wants yer ter mail thet ter me quick. He says as how he won't never call me back, but, Sally, I wants thet you shall send fer me, ef they needs me. I hain't a-goin' ter write no letters home. Unc' Spicer can't read, an' you can't read much either. But I'll plumb shore be thinkin' about ye day an' night." She gulped and nodded. "Yes. Samson," was all she said. The boy rose. "1 reckon I'd better be gettin' along," he announced. The girl suddenly reached out both hands, and seized his coat. She held him ,tight, and rose, facing him. Her upturned face grew very pallid, and her eyes widened. They were dry, and her lips were tightly closed, but. through the tearless pupils, in the firelight, the boy could read her soul, and her soul was sobbing. He drew her toward him, and held her very tight. "Sally," he said, in a voice which threatened to choke, "I wants ye ter take keer of yeself. Ye hain't like these other gals round here. Ye hain't got big hands an' feet. Ye kain't stand es much es they kin. Don't stay out in the night air too much?an', Sally? fer God's sake take keer of yeself!" He broke off, and picked up his hat. "An' that gun, Sally," he repeated at the door, "thai there's the most pre clous thing rve got. I lore* hit better then anything?take keer of hit." i Again, she caught at his shoulders. "Does ye love hit better'n ye do me, . Samson?" Bhe demanded, i He hesitated. "I reckon ye knows how much I loves ye, Sally," he Bald, slowly, "but I've done made a promise, an' thet , gun's a-goln' ter keep hit fer me." They went together out to the stile, be still carrying his rifle, as though loath to let it go, and she crossed with him to the road. , ? As he untied his reins, she threw her arms about his neck, and for a long while they stood there under the clouds and stars, as h? held her close. There was no eloauence of leave-tak ing, no professions of undying love, ' for these two hearts wer^ inarticulate and dizzy clinging to a wilderness code of self-repression?and they had reached a point where speech would have swept them both away to a break* down. CHAPTER Vlll. The boy from Misery rode slowly toward Hixon. At times the moon struggled out and made the shadows black along the way. At other times It was like riding in a huge caldron of pitchWhen he passed into that stretch of country at whose heart Jesse Purvy dwelt he raised "his voice in song. His singing was very bad, and the ballad lacked tune, but it served its purpose of saving him from the suspicion of furtlveness. Though the front of the house was black, behind Its heavy shutters he knew that his coming might be noted, and night-riding at this par ticular spot might be misconstrued in the absence of frank warning. A The correctness of his inference brought a brief smile to his lips when he crossed the creek that skirted the orchard and heard a stable door creak softly behind him. He was to be followed again?and watched, but he did not look back or pause to listen.,for the hoofbeats of his unsolicited escort On the soft mud of the road hp would hardly have heard them had pe bent his ear and drawn rein. He rode at a walk, for his train would not leave until five o'clock in the morning. H^re was time in plenty. It was cold and depressing as; he trudged the empty streets from ^he livery stable to the railroad statipn, carrying his saddlebags over his a*m. At last he heard the whistle and saw the ... ffl l l .1 _ I...A _ Diazing neaaugni, ana a uimuw wer be bad pushed his way intd the smoking car and dropped bis saddl?|ags on the seat beside him. Then, fpjlthe first time, he saw and recognlsiMhis watchers. Purvy meant to have asmson shadowed as far ae Lexlnrtflfwfcl nitely reported. Jim Asbeijy uflEaroa Hollis were the chosen spies, me did not speak to the two enemies who took seats across the car, but Ins face hardened, and his brows came jtogether in a black scowl. ; "When I gits back," he promised himself, "you'll be one of the fust folks I'll look fer, Jim Asberry. damn | ye! All I hopes is thet nobody else don't git ye fust. Ye b'longs fer me." The sleeping car to which be was assigned alter leaving Lexington was almost empty, but he felt upon him'the Interested gaze of those few eyes that were turned toward ills entrance. He engaged every pair with a pair very clear and steady and undropping, until somehow each lipJ\that had started to twist in amusement Btraightened, and the twinkle that rose at first glance sobered at second, ret, lor all his specious seeming of unconcern, Samson was waking to the fact that he was a scarecrow, and his sensitive pride made him cut his meals short In the dining car, where he was' kept busy beating do wit inquisitive eyes with his defiant gaze. He resolved after some thought upon h definite policy. It was a very old policy, br*t to him new?and a discovery. He would change nothing in himself that involved a surrender of code or conviction. Hut, wherever it could be done with honor, he would concede to custom. { It was late in the second afternoon when he stepped from the train at Jersey City, to be engulfed in an unimagined roar and congestion. Here it was impossible to hold bis own aguin&i iuc uutuuwttiou laugmer 01 the many, and he stood for an Instant glaring about like a caged tiger, while three Currents of humanity separated and (lowed toward the three ferry exits. Then he saw the smiling face of Lescott, and Lescott's extended hand. Even Lescott, immaculately garbed and fur-coated, seemed almost a stranger, and the boy's feeling of intimacy frozo to inward constraint and diffidence. But Lescott knew nothing of that. The stoic in Samson held true, masking his emotions. "So you came," said the New Yorker, heartily, grasping the boy's hand. "Where's your luggage? We'll just pick that up and make a dash for the ferry." "Hyar hit is." replied Samson, who still carried his saddlebags. The painter's eyes twinkled, but the mirth 1 was so frank and friendly that the | boy, instead of glaring in defiance. ' grinned responsively. j "Right, oh!" laughed Lescott. "I thought maybe you'd bring a trunk, I but it's the wise man who travels light. ? He followed Lescott out to the foot of Twenty-third street, and stepped with him Into the tonneau of the painter's waiting car. Lescott lived with his family uptown, for It happened that, had his canvases possessed no value whatever, he would still have been in a position to drive his motor and follow his impulses : about the world. If he did not take the boy to his home, it was because * The understood that a life wfiicn meat be not only fill of early embarrassment, but positively revolutionary, should be. approached by easy stages. Consequently the car turned down Fifth avenue, passed under the arch and drew up before a door just off Washington square, where the landscape painter had a studio suit. There were sleeping rooms and such acces, sorles as seemed to the boy unheard-of i luxury, though Lescott regarded the place as a makeshift annex to his home establishment. "Xou'd better take yqur time In se, lecting permanent quarters," was his * careless fashion of explaining to Samson. "It's Just as well not to hurry. You are to stay here with me, as long as you will." i "I'm /obleeged ter ye," replied the boy, to whose training in open-doored hospitality the invitation seemed only natural. The evening meal was brought in from a neighboring hotel, and the two men dined before an open fire, Samson eating in mountain alienee, while' hi* host chatted and asked questions. "Samson," suggested the painter, when the dinner things had been carried out.and they were alone, "you are i here for two purposes: First, to study painting; second, to educate and equip yourself for coming conditions. It's going to take work, more work, and then some niore work." "I hain't skeered of work." , "I believe that Also, you must keep out of trouble. You've got to ride youfi- fighting Instinct with a strong curb." ' \ "1 don't 'low to let nobody run over me." The statement was not argumentative; only an announcement of a principle which was not subject to modification. ^ "All right, but until you learn the r^pes let me advise you." The boy gazed into the fire for a few moments of silence. "I gives ye my hand on thet," be promised. At eleven o'clock the painter, having shown his guest over the premises, said good-night and went uptown to his own house. Samson lay a \long while awake, with many disquieting reflections. Meanwhile Lescott, letting himself into a house overlooking the park, was balled by a chorus of voices from the dining room, tie turned and went in to join a gay group just back from the opera. As he thoughtfully mixed himself a highball, they bombarded him with, questions.' "Why didn't you bring your 'barbarian with you?" demanded a darkeyed girl, who looked very much as Descott himself might have lpoked had he "been a girl?and very young and t?nvpiy Nttg she flashed .an..him an affectionate smile, and adde'd: "We have been waiting to see him. Must we go to bed' disappointed?" George stood looking down on them, and tinkled the ice in his glass. "He wasn't brought on for purposes of exhibition, Drennle," he smiled. "I was afraid if he came in here in the fashion of his arrival?carrying his saddlebags?you . ultracivilized folk might have laughed." A roar of laughter at the picture vindicated Lescott's assumption. "No!' Now, actually with saddlebags?" echoed a young fellow with a likable face which was for the moment incredulously amused. "That goes Dick Whittington one better. Ton do make some rare discoveries. George. We celebrate you." 'Thanks, Horton," commented the painter, dryly. "When you New Yorkers have learned what these barbarians already know, the control of your oversensitized rlsibles and a courtesy J ?IwAnfei mavho ueeper uiun JUUI oun i-n umo?um; ut I'll let you have a look. Meantime I'm much too fond of all of you to risk letting you laugh at my barbarian." * * * * * * Several months were spent laboring with charcoal and paper over plaster casts in Lescott's studio, and Lescott himself played instructor. When the. skylight darkened with the coming of evening, the boy whose mountain pature cried out for exercise went for long tramps that carried him over many miles of city pavements, and after that, when the gas was lit, he turned, still insatiably hungry, to volumes of history, and algebra, and facts. * * A sloop-rigged boat with a crew of two was dancing before a brisk breeze through blue Bermuda water. Off to the right Hamilton rose sheer and colorful from the bay. At the tiller sat the white-clad figure of Adrienne Lescott. Puffs of wind that whipped the tautly bellying sheets lashed her dark hair about her face. Her lips, vividly red like poppy petals, were just now curved fnto an amused smile, which made them even more than ordinarily kissable and tantalizing. Her companion was neglecting his nominal duty of tending the sheet to watch her. "Wilfred," she teased, "your contrast*^ quite startling?and. in a way, j effective. From head to foot you are spotless white?but your scowl is absolutely 'the blackest black that our ( eyes endure.' -And." she added, in an injured voice, "I'm sure I've been very ! i nice to you." ' i "I have not yet begun to scowl," he assured her, and proceeded to show j what superlatives of saturnine expression he held in reserve. "See here. Drennie, I know perfectly well that i I'm a sheer imbecile to reveal the fact that you've made me mad. It pleases you too perfectly. It makes you happier than is good for you, but?" 1 "It's a terrible thing to make me i happy, isn't it?" she inquired, sweetly. \ "Drennie, you have held me off since we were children. I believe I first an- i nounced my intention of marrying you when fM?<o were twelve. That lncentka remains unaltered. More: It is una terable and Inevitable. My reason for wanting to needn't be rehearsw It would take too long. I regard yo as possessed of an alert and remarl able mind?one worthy of companioi ship with my own." Derpito the frit olous badinage of his words and th humorous smile of his lips, his 'eye hinted at an underlying intensitj "With no desire to flatter or spoil yoi I find your personal aspect pleasin enough to satisfy me. And then, wfcil a man should avoid emotionalism, am in love with you." He moved ove to a place in the sternsheets, and hi face became intensely earnest. H dropped his hand over hers as it la on the tiller shaft. "God knows, dear, he exclaimed, "how much I love yon! Her eyes, after holding his for a m< ment, feil to the hand1 which still in prisoned her own. She shook be head not in anenr hilt with a mat ner of gentle denial, until be release her fingers and stepped back. "You are a dear, Wilfred," she con forted, "and I couldn't manage to g< on without you, but you aren't ma: riageable?at least, not yet." "Why not?" he asked. "In the first place, you are one c those men whose fortunes are liste in the top schedule?the swollen foi tunes. Socialists would put you in tb predatory class." "Drennie," he groaned, "it's not m fault that I'm rich. It was wished o me. If you are serious, I'm willin to become poor as Job's turkey. Sho1 me the way to strip myself, and T stand shortly before you beggln aim." "To what end?" she questions "Poverty would be quite inconvenlen I shouldn't care for it But hasn't I ever occurred to you that the ma who wears the strongest and brlghtai mail, and who by his own confesslo is possessed jof an alert brain, oust occasionally to be seen in the lists? "In short, your charge is that I ai a shirker?and, since it's the sam thing, a coward?" * Adrienne did not at once anBwe him, but she straightened out for a uninterrupted run before the wint and by the tiny moss-green Deck) which moments of great seriousnea "You Are a Dear, Wilfred?" brought to the depths of her eyes, b knew that she meant to speak the m veiled truth. "Besides your own holdings in a Ic of i-allways and things, you hand! your mother's and sisters' propei-tj don't you?" He nodded. "In a fashion, I do. I sign theneoei sary papers when the lawyers call o up and ask me to come downtown. * "You are a director in the Metro; ol Trust company?" "Guilty." "In the Consolidated Seacoast?" VI believe so." "With your friends, who are ail shareholders, you could assume coi trol of the Morning Intelligence couldn't you?" "I guess I could assume control, bti what would I do with it?" "Do you know the reputation of thi newspaper?" "I guess it's all right. It's conservi tive and newsy. I read it every mon ing when I'm in town. It fits in ver nicely between the grapefruit and th bacon and eggs." "It is, also, powerful," she adde< "and is said to be absolutely servil to corporate interests." "Drennie, you talk liko an anarchlr You are rich yourself, ycu know." "\r>A aero In at Pnrh C.t those Oth concerns various charges have bee made." ' "Well, what do want me to do?" "It's not what I want you to do, she informed me; "It's what I'd Ilk to see you want to do." "Name it! I'll want to do It fortl with." "I think when you are one of a hant ful of the richest men In New York when, for instance, you could dictat the policy of a great newspaper, ye know it only as the course that follow your grapefruit, you are a shirker am a drone, and are not playing tb game." Her hand tightened on th tiller. "I think if I were a man ridln; on to the polo field I'd either try lik the devil to drive the ball down b? tween the pos.'s, or I'd come insitre am take off my boots and .colors, wouldn't hover In a ladylike futillt; around the edge of the scrimmage." She knew that to Horton, wb< played polo like a fiend Incarnate, th' figure would be effMtiye, and sb whipped out her words with somethlnj very close to scorn. "There's my hand on it, Drennie,' he said. "We start back to New Yorl tomorrow, don't we? Well, when I g? there I put on overalls and go v. work. When I propose next I'll hart something to show." (TO BE COKT1NI/ODJ i Mebnational :Swrsaiooi : LESSON r. (By E. O. SELLERS. Acting Director of , Sunday School Course, Moody Bible In^ atltute, Chicago.) * LESSON FOR APRIL 4 ir 8 8AUL REJECTED BY THE LORD. j LESSON TEXT-I Samuel 15:10-21 GOLDEN TEXT?Behold, to obey la bet>. ter than sacrifice.?I Samuel 15:21 > j. Jonathan's victory (ch. 14) brought ir with it a sinning on the part of the hungry, harassed Israelites in that ,j they ate of the spoils "with the blood" (14:31, 32; Lev. 3:17, 7:26). In the i. emergency Saul erected "the first al5t tyr that he built unto the Lord" (ch r. 14:35), a rkther dilatory act on the part of a God-anointed king. Saul had resorted ?o the subterfuge of commanding the people "to roll a great d stone," I.e., cut the throats of the anir. trials of which they had eaten that e they might bleed, and thus be an erldence that the animals had died bey fore being eaten. This the people did, ? fearing Saul, but having no scruples g in ' transgressing God's commands. w These same people rescued Jonathan H from the foolish vow of Saul, for it g was his faith and valor that had chiefly brought about the victory. I. I. God's Sorrow, vv. 10-12. Samuel t had first revealed God's purpose In ' ;t making Saul king, and llktfclse first ^ n declared God's purpose to dispose of it Saul (v. 10). Saul's actions (w. 1-9) n had stamped him as being no longer it worthy of God's confidence. The ~ word "repenteth," meaning "to sigh" n (v. 11), denotes a change of feeling e due to Saul's actions and not to any change in the character, purpose or ir desires of Good. God was sorry that n Saul had proved himself unworthy. 1, A half-way obedience of God's comi,' mand only heightened his guilt is 'Whatever moral difficulties eeem to lie, for a later age, in Saul's 'ccynmission against Amalek, there were none such for him" (Vaughn). Man's repentance involves a change'of mind and purpose. In Saul's case God rw pented, changed the instrument of his pverntfon hprause of the chanae of circumstances and relation. God ii ever the same; it is man alone who changes. 8aul had given Samuel cause for anger (v. 11 R. V.), but lie did the wise thing In taking It to God < j in prayer. Arising early the next Saul v^th Je^ova^s" "JfcTs^ "" remarkable of how many of the great I men of the Bible it is said that they rose early, Abraham, Gideon, Joshua, Job, Jacob, Moses, etc., not to forget our Lord Jesus. II. 8amuel's Rebuke, vv. 13-19. It I must have been a striking scene when the aged Nazarite prophet faced the proud but recreant king. A guilty conscience is often covered by a great show of piety (v. 13), but such acts , * cannot stifle the conviction of the v H heart nor deceive the righteous Judge. Sin proclaims itself even as Samuel's * ' sharp question brought conviction * from the lips of Saul (v. 14; Prov. r' 28:13). Saul thought to deceive Samuel by using a falsehood (v. 16). The only safe course is to confess our * sins (Ps. 32:15; L John 1:9). There 9 is an Interesting suggestion in the way Saul uses the impersonal "they" 9 and "we" in verse 15, as if to lay the guilt of his acts upon others. It is easy for the sinner to blame otheis and seek to minimize his own guiit (Rom. 14:12). Verse 9 clearly indicates why Saul and the people had * spared the best of the cattle. To use a part only for God and the rest for . self in direct disobedience to God's ' rights or the rights of others is to . Incur his righteous wrath (vv. 22, 23). HI S*lf.R?Ur4inn. w. 20-23. God 6et Saul aside because be had } rejected the right and chose the . wrong. Face to face with his sin Saul could not dodge the Issue. Samuel's "wherefore" (v. 19) must have I aroused Saul's guilty conscience, it B is a question which should reach every \. tempted soul. Samuel characterized ^ Saul's sin as being due to stubbornness, rebellion, disobedience and a re|f Jection of God (v. 19). Again Saul B seeks to evade his responsibility (w. 20, 21). Then Samuel speaks plainly (v. 22) comparing his sin of disobedi? ence with witchcraft, stubbornness, I iniquity and Idolatry. Plainly he tells Saul, "Because thou hast rejected the v word of the Lord, he hath also rejected thee from being king" (v. 23). I Driven thus to a corner Saul made ; a confession of his guilt (v. 24) but i spoiled it all by acknowledging that t he had greater fear of the people than of God. d This is Easter Sunday, our reproach ? has been removed, not at Gilgal but e on Calvary. The unchanging uoa I hates sin, which is unchangeable, has ? condemned It on the Cross that the guilty sinner may live. A The persistence of sin, the un1 changeableness of God and his un- / ? yielding hatred of sin are met by the culmination of Easter for, "By the I obedience of one shall many be made I righteous" (Rom. 5:19). i The whole root of Saul's trouble I was his attitude towards the word of God. Every man's destiny hinges " upon what he does with the Living I Incarnate Word. t The resurrection of Jesus is tho I seal of his authority, the evidence of ' his power and our eternal salvation depends upon what we do with him, John 3:16; 18:36. * * * 3