Historical Newspapers of South Carolina

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" * ~T'~ ' ' Ijloldehhti * "* "'copjTich: l?6, by Ro CHAPTER XVI. Continued. We have seen a great deal of your Holdenliurst clergyman, the Rev. Mr. Evan Price, since you were here. I hardly know which is the greater flatterer, you or he. Your uucle admires him very much, and has invited him to New York; lie says he is a "smart" ti.au and ought to leave the Church and become a stockbroker. With kindest regards, hoping to see you to-morrow or tae next day at latest, as well in health as when we parted, believe me to remain, dear Mr. Trueman, very sincerely yours, CONSTANCE MARSH. "Let me see that letter, please, Ernest" said my father, when I had finished reading. I landed the letter to my father. "Poor boy!" he said, after he had glanced through it; "don't be cast down; you have seen nothing of the ' world yet. There are thousands and thousands of English girls as good as or lietter than this fair American. Cheer up. Everything is for the best." CHAPTER XVII. TO THE WEST. O the weary days and sleepless nights that succeeded the. departure of uncle Sam from Holdenhurst! Never in my life before had I been so utterly depressed and wretched. Every day some incident helped to confirm the overthrow of my aspirations and increased my restlessuess. Iu compliance with the earnest pleading of my father. I had written a brief note to Constance Marsh assuring her of my unalterable regard?that was the word he suggested as exactly suited i to the occasion?but regretting the im-' possibility, owing to an unfortunateJ incident, either of calling upon her in London, or inviting her to Holdeuhurrt. To that note came no reply; nor ? could I la reason expect any. though each morniug I scauned the mail with hopeless curiosity. About a week afterwards my father received a letter from the Rev. Mr. Price, announcing his preferment to the living of All Saints,North Brixton, and consequent resignation of the vicariate of Holdenhur-t Minor. Mr. Price also stated that as he was not to take up bis new duties for three months, he had ac-cepted an invitation to visit America, as ;>e had loug desired to study the methods and manners of American \ diviues, and that, being much pressed for time, be regretted his inability -o return to Holdenhurst to preach a fare- j welt sermon to his parishioners, so bad reqi ested a friend to forward his effects to Loudon?which 1 afterwards learned was accordingly done, the said effects consisting of two cricket huts, a fowling piece, a fishing rod and tackle, a tobacco jar and several pipes, a shelf-load of French novels with the margins annotated in the reverend geuiletuan's owu hand, and some dozens of .slippers. Yet a few days later, and while I was still smarting under this intelligence. I noticed, quite accidentally. au announcement at the bottom of A column in the Times that Mr. Samuel Truetuan. the American financier, accompanied by Mrs. Truetnau and Miss Marsh, had sailed for New York from Liverpool the day before on .board the Cutiard steamship Etruria. Though his discontent was by no means equal to mine, my father was uot without grave anxiety. The rcqotation of Holdeuhurst Hall, and the numerous and extensive improvements in progress on the estate were now fast approaching completion. The work was admirably doue. and both house aud grounds assumed an aspect incomparably superior to what they had presented at any former period of their history. My father acquainted me with the fact that he had very little money at his bauker's beyond the five thousand pounds which his brother had given him, a sum quite inadequate to pay for the work doue. and he fea-ed that he would be obliged to renew the mortgage which had so recently been extinguished. With some temerity he formally inquired of Messrs. Knight and Faulkner what would be the amouut of their demand ou the completion of their contract, and was informed by that firm that Mr. Samuel Trueman had satisfied the r claim in full on a certain date? which we found was the very day my uncle was last at Holdenhurst. This circumstance was a victory for . me.who had held, contrary to the opinion of my father, that uncle Sam would keep his word, and honorably pay for the work tie had ordered to be doue. no;withstanding his deuuueia- ! tiou of his brother. The only thing which could have delivered tue out of the pliable condition j into which I had fallen at this period i <except, of course, the removal of its' cause) was rigorous employment of i any faculties. Though I did not lack j discrimination to perceive this truth.! 1 could not benefit myself thereby, j .ha\ ing no power to exert my will. My i turn was spent in aimlessly wander-; ing about the house and grounds, or ; sauntering iu the lilnary aud taking a j bock at random front a shelf there. , opening it, reading a few liues, closing =5=- BY; ALTER BLOOMFIELD BERT B 5S NEB'S SONS. it again, and returning it to its place. I became pale and haggard, and my evident want of the usual attributes of youth was noticed and remarked upon by my father's friends, who were at a loss how to account for the change which had come over me. Though the days seemed long and wearisome, and the nights almost interminable. yet time passed away with i more apparent swiftness for being marked by no particular event. It was the early ^pringtime when I first beheld the girl whom I had fondly hoped to win for my own, from whose sweet companionship I had been ruthlessly severed by the strangest of events; and that never-to-be-forgotten season I had merged into summer, which in its turn had declined and died, and now the autumn was at hand, i .One glorious September moruing 1 , was listlessly gaziug through the wiuj dow which led out on to the veranda, j my hands clasped behind md. From mat spot .1 was i last oeuera my uncie Styn as he stood in the roadway contemplating his birthplace, and ,uty position induced a train of thought which could hardly be said ever to be absent from my mind. "Pshaw!" I muttered, turning suddenly round and walking quickly away; "I am a very fool. Here am I pining miserably, wasting ray life in unproductive thought. If action based on impulse be bad. surely prolonged contemplation out of which no actio i grows must be worse. Though Constance Marsh can never be mine; though my father and uncle can never be reconciled; I will not consume my days in useless sclf-atflictiou. I will travel; I will go to Amer| ica; perhaps I will call on my uncle; perhaps?" "Father," I asked, a minute later, as I stood by his side in the study, where he sat examining an account book; "do you know what next Sunday will be?" My father looked up at me. and his face wore a puzzled, querulous expression. "Yes, my boy," he replied, and as he spoke I observed that his hair had grown very grey of late; "I have not forgotten it. On Sunday you will complete your twentieth year." "It is of that I was thinking," I said. "And I have also thought that a change of scene would be good for me. As you know. I have been very wretched since that affair with uuc-le ?quite unable to fix my attention on any matter save that from which I would gladly divert it. If you can bear the expense, aud do not object to my leaving home for awhile, I think I should like to travel for few months." My father looked up sharply. "Why don't you speak ^plainly, and say outright that you are tired of your father and long to be with your uncle?" he asked. % "Because if I said so I should lie," I retorted warmly; "and that is what I never did yet. I have told you my opinion %f my uncle, and I think as well of him now as ever. But that circumstance does not diminish the affection and respect I bear for you. And I may tell you, that I have abandoned all hope of ever beiug anything more to Miss Marsh than I am at this miDute. Indeed, it is to contirm me in my present mood that I seek the permission and means to travel." "I take it as most unfilial, most unkind in you. Ernest," continued my father in an injured tone, regardless of the declaration I had jusi made, "that in all these mouths that have elapsed since your uncle was here you have never thought proper to ask me to show you the proofs of his perfidy, though I volunteered to do so at the time. You stated then (hnd now you reiterate) your belief in you uncle's innocence. What is the inference? That your father is careless in a matter of the utmost gravity, on which the honor of his only brother wholly depends." "Surclj you don't wish to open that question again!" I exclaimed in dismay. "Certainly I do," continued my father. "You tell me you wish to travel?at your age a natural desire, which I heartily approve and will provide money for. But you cannot leave here with my good will until you have heard and seen the things by which I justify my attitude towards your uncle. Having heard and seen them, you will be at liberty to retain or abandon your present ideas respecting the robbery." "There is nothing I nni less willing 4 Ka ziAnvlnnnrl r\f than mtr ltnoln'w tv UC VUUTiUVVU Vf*. IUUU UMV*V ?guilt. but let it be as you spy,'' I assented: and, taking a ehnir, I seated myself close to the desk. My father at onqe thrust his hand into his pocket, drew forth threp coins, and laid them in front of me. "See." said he; "there you have three Venetian sequins. Do me the favor to examine thein." I picked up one of the coins; it was of go'd, and as large as a helfpenny, but much thinner. On one side was a representation of a shield, with the words, "Sanctus ' Marcus ' Yenetus -j- ." and on the other side a cross, with the words, "Petrus Lando; Dux ' Venetnir . -|- The coins, which were in excellent condition, were ex actly alike. Having scrutinized each very carefully with the aid of a reading glass. I handed them back to my father, who paused, as if expecting in?? to make some comment, but I remained silent. "Pierto Lnndo." said my father, "was Doge of Venice from 1538 to 154"): so you will agree with me that abundance of sequins such as these must have been in circulation in Venice when your ancestor, Roger Trueman. was there a century later." I L .dded assent, and mv father coi* tinned: "I am informed by John Adams (than whom a more faithful servant never lived) that your uncle, on the first day of his return here, seized the opportunity while you and I were preparing for dinner, to descend, unobserved by us. into the crypt. It seems he asked old John for a lighted lamp; and John, at loss to know what your uncle wanted with It (for it was broad daylight, as you know.), with pardonable curiosity, observed his movements, and was surprised to find that he went boldly down into the crypt. So little conscious was old John that lie was playing the part of a spy that he soon afterwards followed your uncle, and found him standing, lamp in hand, in front of the Abbot's Cell, probing between the bricks with a pocket knife. John asked your uncle if be eould assist him in any way, who thereupon turned upon him in great auger and alarm, cursing him for a meddlesome old fool. A little later your uncle gave old John two sovereigns, and told him not to think seriously of what he had said; that he liked to express himself emphatically. The incident impressed our old servant as a strange occurrence, but aroused in him no suspicion of foul play. When, however, on the occasion of his visit here with his wife, your uncle was observed to go down into the crypt a second time, and to remain there the greater part of one night, old John feared that some sinister desigD against jny interests must be afoot; yet he dared not again follow him. and refrained from reporting the circumstance to me lest, my brother having gone there with my permission, I should resent the imputation which the giving of such information would necessarily imply." Again my father paused, as if expecting me to remark upon his narrative: but I uttered no word, and he went on: "On visiting the crypt next morning John found that sufficient bricks had been removed to allow of entrance into the cell, and entering there him self for the Hrst time ne ooserveu that the place contained several very heavy chests. Concluding that it was merely curiosity which had induced your uncle to visit the crypt, John did not go down there again until the day before- you went to Loudon, when the chests were all empty, and he picked up two of these sequins just outsiao the cell. The third sequin was found by a housemaid in the bed room occupied by your uncle and aunt, and was brought by her to rue." A loug silence ensued, which joth of us seemed unwilling to break. At !last I said: "And you are satisfied that uncle Sam stole those sequins?" "Unfortunately, I am," he replied, bowing his head. "I wish to Heaven I could have arrived at some other conclusion. But it was not possible; the evidence ivas too clear and admitted of'iio alternative." "The evidence is not clear to me. Might it not be that some person other than uncle Sam is the thief?old John himself, for instance?and that he is diveiling suspicion of the real thief to your brother?" "Ah, my boy, I have thought deeply of all that," said my father, shaking his head sadly. "John Adams is an old man who believes he Is without a relation in the world. He was in your grandfather's service when he was quite a young boy, years before I was born, and has always shown himself truthful and honest. He does not want for money, for not long ago he told me that he had ?600 in the bank, the result of his lifelong econo- 1 my and self-denial. Now that he is old, and visibly nearing the close of 1 his life, it is quite improbable that he would go out of his way to rob me of a large sum of money which could be of very small use to him. ' Besides, he was always an admirer ' of your uncle Sam; he frequently asked me for news of him, and expressed ' much pleasure when informed that he was eoiniug to England. And these are the circumstances of the case, all of them pointing one way. Did not your uncle himself speak to me about the treasure very soon after his return here??a subject not mentioned by anybody for I don't know how many years. And what of the sequiu found by Phoebe on the floor of your uncle's bedroom? And haven't we seen what has been the effect upon John of the whole affair? Why. it very nearly killed him; and to this day he goes about the house the shadow of his former self. He has aged terribly. Dr. Thurlow was remarking to me only yesterday how. rapidly he is breaking up." "Still I am not convinced." I said; 1 "but you make me doubt, which before I did not." To be continued. Literary. '"Better were I dead!" moaned the poet. "Don't be silly!" the woman, his wife, exclaimed. "But how else am I to get myself nnecdotalized in the literary publications?" he demanded, turning on hi?r fiercely. She shivered. How, indeed 2? Puck. household Matters Care of Flatiron*. Flat irons in the average household are too often sadly neglected. They are very apt to be left on the back of the stove, where they can never become thoroughly cold, and where In time they lose their power to regain heat. Like all iron and steel instruments. they possess that peculiar quality called temper. Irons that are heated to a high temperature, and then, as soon as the worker is through with them, but in a cool place to become thoroughly cold, will last for many years. Irons grow more valuable with time, if good care, in some other respects, is taken of them. For Instance, they should be kept in a dry place, where they are not subject to rust or moisture. Flatirons that have lost their temper and become rusted or roughened should be disposed of, and not left to take up valuable space on kitchen shelves. New irons cost little, and it is poor economy to use old ones that are past their usefulness. For the Invalid. Orange pulp served in glasses may be used to introduce either the breakfast or luncheon. For the invalid's tray the fruit served in this way is especially appropriate. Cut the fruit in half crosswise, and scoop out the pulp, rejecting all the seeds and white fibre. A sharp knife may be made to aid in the process, so that the delicate globules may be broken as little as possible. Sprinkle with sugar and 6tand the glasses on ice for ten minutes. Pineapple syrup from a can of the preserved fruit may be added to give zest to the flavor. Jellied apples are delicious served with whipped cream. Fill a baking dish with thinly sliced apples which have been sprinkled with sugar as successive layers of the fruit have been added. Turn in half a cupful of water. Fit over a dish, a cover or plate, which will serve as a slight weight. Bake very slowly for three hours. Let the apples remain in the dish until they are cold. Then turn them out.?New York News. Yellow Piano Keys. Many people who keep their pianos carefully closed find that the keys become yellow. Because dust is injurious to a piano it is a common belief that a piano should be closed when not in use. This is a mistake. The majority of piauos made to-day are constructed so that dust cannot easily penetrate them even when they are open. Keys turn yellow from lack of light, and a piano should be opeu the larger part of the time. There is notnmg iiKe strong sunsnine ior bleaching yellowed piano keys. Rub the keys with powdered pumice stone moistened with water and then draw the piano up before a sunny window while the keys are still moist. The woodwork of the piano should be carefully covered. This bleaching is a slow process and may need to be repeated several times before the keys assume their original color. Some housekeepers have bleached the keys of their pianos to a beautiful white by simply letting strong sunlight rest fully on them hour after hour and day after day. Bread Ramikins?Rub together four tablespoonfuls of grated cheese, the yolk of one egg, one tablespoonful of melted butter, a little anchovy paste, | salt and pepper; spread on toasted bread and brow.i in the oven. Beef Salad?Cut into dice half a pound of lean roast beef; pour over a little French dressing and let stand two hours; then mix with one pint of cooked celery or a head of lettuce torn in strips; add more dressing aud sprinkle with, finely chopped parsley. ? Cheese Custards?Grate three or four Dunces of cheese; beat three level tablespoonfuls of butter to a cream; beat two eggs; mix the butter and cheese together; then add the beaten eggs and ane tablespoonful of milk; beat all thoroughly; turn into a buttered dish and bake in a quick oven until firm in the centre; serve as soon as removed from the oven. Mock Terrapin?Scald half a calf's liver after slicing; fry the slices, then | chop them rather coarse; flour it thickly and add one teaspoonful of mixed mustard, a little cayenne pepper, two j hard boiled eggs chopped, one table spoonful of butter and one cupful of , water: let simmer five minutes; season. Veal may be prepared in the same manner. Ham Patties?Ham patties give an opportunity to use up scraps of boiled J ham too small to slice nicely. One ; pint of cooked bam, chopped flue; mix , with two parts of bread crumbs, wet < with milk, a generous lump of butter, and any other seasoning desired. Put j the batter in bread pans and break an , egg over each. Sprinkle the top thickly with bread crumbs.?Bake till brown. 1 ?Rural New Yorker. ] Salmi of Lamb?Cook two table- i spoonfuls of butter with half a table- 4> spoonful of minced onion live minutes. j Add two tnblespoonfuls of flour and cook until brown, then pour on grad- i ually one cup of brown stock or beef j extract, with a tablespoonful of j kitchen bouquet. Season with a quar- , ter teaspoonful of salt, a good sprinkle 1 of pepper and a teuspoonful of table 1 sauce. Lay in slices of cold roasl j lamb and reheat. Serve with peas and ] mint jelly. < A SERMON FOB SUNDAY AN ELOQUENT DISCOURSE ENTITLED, "CHRIST'S GIFT OF LIFE." iW R?*. Goorce K. Lunn Preaches From a Text Which He I>eclares Shows in Compact Form the Predominate Aim of Jesas?The Larger Life. Brooklyn, N. Y.?Sunday night, in the Lafayette Avenue Presbyterian Church, the Kev. George R. Lunn, assistant pastor, preached on "Christ's Gift of Life." The text was taken from John x:10: "I am come that they might have life." ilr. Lunn said: i am sure that I do not exaggerate when I say that no words of out Lord ate more profoundly significant than these words of the text. We have in a c?mpact form a statement of the purpose ol Jesus Christ. All else 14 subordinated to Ciis great and predominate aim. Jesus Cltfst has come into the world to give that lif? in ever increasing abundance. This s not a conclusion of mine worked out cfter special investigation; it is the simplt and clear and forceful statement of our Inrd Himself. 1 rest upon His word as a .nality. And 1 find in this verse a fuller and richer expression of the purpose ol Christ than is found anywhere else in Scrpture. What, then, is the life vhich Christ seeks to give? It is the life >f fellowship with God, the Father; a fdlovship begun on earth and continued thrughoot the ( ages of eternity. ^ It is the lifejf spiritual j oneness with God, united t Him in , thought, in purpose, in all our ap-ing activities. It is the larger life hich com- , prenends our present lite, enncn?g it with ai! the holy purposes of God. ouSaviour, ( lifting "s bv its power into the Ritied at- 1 mospuere of noble deeds, donefor His A sake. In other words, it is th life 0f i which our Master spoke when Head that ' to lose it was a calamity, even bugh a 1 man should gain the whole world. j, I think I am right in saying that ^rcat t many people interpret the words ai work a of our Lord as applying chiefly to tlother I world, not altogether, but chiefly.They ii regard the religion of Christ as afnsur- C ance of safety for the next worldather ' than a definite program of activity r tue I present. They think more of thciving \ of the soul after death than of savi the a life before death. No stronger illusition G of this thought can be found tha the s< large numbers of men who delay thi de- o; cision in reference to Christ to somqore T convenient season. They say, potow, ti but at some future time, I will settthe w great question of r.iy soul's relatit to u] God. You cannot find a may who wiiot w express some wish to lead a betterfe; di but in nearly every case they see noed ta of an immediate decision. In my pasal m work I have come in contact with thix- ijj perience time and again. And as I ?e th endeavored to understand what is thei- av der'yiug cause of so much indecision?- Sp garding religious things, I find that rt pr of it can be traced to this fundamel misinterpretation of the words and w ou of Jesus Christ our Lord. You may. press this in many ways, but at heart , jjf, point is this?the saving of the soul al ^ death, instead of saving the life right h fte; and now; the gaining of heaven hereaftl ter rather than entering into heaven nd fac And because of this interpretation m as feel no immediate necessity of getti right with God. So long as they are r< pa 6onably sure "of life here, they are willii]jfe to delay the great decision of the soul. jjv Against this view of religion allow me %ci, bring the message of the Saviour, "I a^ p come that they might have life ahd tha8 < they might have it more abundantly." Yoc , cannot read the gospels without cominm], into contact with this purpose of Christ a ta every turn. Repeatedly do you find th?jj; word life. We are struck with the fac^ how constantly the word life was on tiictc lips of Jesus. It is a word tfhich gives uaa tne very heart of Jesus' teaching. He was~ always praising, always promising life. "If^ thou wilt enter into life keep My com-,; mandments," "He that helieveth on Me,j hath life," "As the Father hath life in tj Himself, so hath He given to the Son to j have life in Himself," "Because I live ye ] shall live also." "Ye will not come unto Me that ye might have life." Everywhere we find this same eager pleading with men to enter into life, and we further find that Jesus identified life with goodness. To Jesus life consisted in goodness. Wickedness is death. "The soul that sinneth. it shall die" is not so much a threat as the statement of a great truth. For the sinning soul dies by reason of the very faehof its sinning. There is no liie for the human soul but in righteousness. Jesus. I. lor, ,-, miv justly call violent when He referred to the possibility of a man's losing his higher life. Better to cut off the offending hand or foot if it hinders the a:piring soul. Better to pluck out the eye which causes stumbling if by that ueans the real life of God may be gained. I have called this language violent, and such it is. Not that Jesus anticipated any literal interpretation and literal following. The forceful illustration is used to emphasize a terrible and an eternal truth. The very possibility of a man's failing to enter into the life of fellowship with God, was a thought which brought strong tears to the eyes of the Saviour of men. I tell you that in these days we are harboring in our hearts a sentimental sympathy which overlooks sin and condones iniquity and seeks to apologize for the stern words of the Saviour. There was no doubt a ringing doom against sin. But it was not the doom of a threat. Jesus never threatened. He revealed what sin is; its very nature is death. The open door of life in God is before men. To pass by that door does not mean that God will arbitrarily punish, but that the very passing it by is death. The issue of sin is doom, exile into the night, the eclipse of desolation and abandonment. Docs there move in your hearts the suspicion that such a doom is exaggerated and overdone? When that suspicion comes to me, and it often coines, I remember the words of a sainted preacher: "When I am tempted to think that the doom is overdone, I must remember that the Sen of God, my Saviour, with an infinite insight into all things, superlatively sensitive, knowing the inmost heart of life, He, our Saviour, pronounced the doom to be just. This Christ, who gave Himself for us, who loved us, told us in words?I venture to say loving words, of appalling terror?that for the deliberately siniul, and for the deliberately unjust, there is no place but the ( night, no place but the outer darkness, no place but ultimate separateness, no place but ultimate forsakenness and abandonment. These are my Master's words, aud against them I will rear no petty imagination of my own; I will rather silence my own unillumined suspicion an?bhumbly and : luietly take my place with Him. The J wages of sin is the night." It is the night now; it is the night hereafter. Tin? es- , sence of sin is death; it is* exile; it is aban- j ionment. Jesus' words were violent, but . Wo r?/\f cAal'inrr fn nrrt/llino fonr Vni f to reveal fact. Xow to all of us who feel this fact so keenly Jesus brings His evangel of fcnive> rjess and j>eace. The words spoken so long igo have their greatest significance now, for we can see, as those Jews could not see, their fuller and more profound meaning. As He spoke of the Father in such intimate terms, bitter resentment arose in . their hearts. As He told them of His wilingness to lav down His life for His sheep, they retorted: "He hath a demon and is mad; why hear ye Him?" Possibly we tvould have spoken likewise had we been iving then. But now in the light of the centuries past, we look upon that lonely, forsaken, crucified Christ, and recognize in His face the glory of the living, suffering Jod. For the "sufferings of Christ were Liu true representative symbol and proc tarnation ef what goes on perpetually I God. From them God wishes the world t learn that sin is put away onlv throug the redemptive suffering of holy lov< which He Himself is gladly hearing, an which Christ, His representative and ei pression. endured before the eyes of mer." It is this truth which gives to the weed of the text their power. He who said " am come that ye might have life" is. Him self the iife which He seeks to impart. H and the Father are one. The words jvhicl the historic Christ spoke to those Jew then are being repeated now to us by th indwelling, immanent Christ. I like tha word immanent. It is a theological word but it is a splendid word, pregnant wit! meaning. His name shall be called Imma nuel, God with us, the inside God, the im manent God. It is He who says ''Com* unto Me all ye that labor and are heavj laden and I will give you rest." It is H< who says, "I am come that ye might hav< life and that ye might have it more abun dantly." It is He who speaks to us in oui sorrow and says. "Come with your sin and shame, come with your sadness and disappointment, come with yonr heavy trial and discouragement and I will give you peace." God with us! now to give us the victory, God with us, now, to forgive our sin*. God with us! now, to give us heaven in out consecrated labor for Him. I would that these words of Jesus which we are considering might live in your heart, as I try to have them live in my heart, as words spoken now. to-night, by the ever-living, ever-ioving Father! How pftinuirtn if its * C * 1 " ?v io Wi us IV CUWltv UL VJuu our Father as far removed! It may be because of our training, but however we may account for it, the fact remains that many of us fail to realize that God is dealing with us now just as intimately and just as gra iousiv as Ho dealt with the great prophets )f old. How many of us carry about with is the sense of God? Do wo have the conviction of God's abiding nearness wherever ve are? If not, the greatest blessing of ife has been missed. There is nothing note nepded to-day than a. truer, larger, nore Scriptural idea of God. We need to ealize His abiding nearness. But we need o forget the old idea of an -unapproachble God. I recall the words of Henry )rummond, that great teacher, who, durng his short life, won so manv men to ,'hrist. "I remember very well,' he the awful conception of God I got wnen was a boy. I was given a book of Vatts' hymns, which was illustrated, and, mong other nyrnns there was one about rod, and it represented a great black, :owling thunder cloud, and in the midst f that cloud there was a piercing eye. hat was placed before my young imaginaon as God, and I got the idea that God as a great detective, playing the spy pon my actions and, as the hymn says, riting now the story of what little chil:en do. That was a bad lesson. It has ken years to obliterate it." And I fear ost of us have had to go through a simir experience before we have been rid of e terrible God of childhood, the farvay God of childhood, and come into the intual conception of the everywhere esent God of the Bible. Now it is this everywhere-present God, r Father, who seeks our life to save it. ; wants our life now, for without God 2 is a living death. With God. life is jwth, development ? heaven now and aven hereafter. Without God it is de L? J_..U TT X? .uiaui/ii, unui. xierc are two ts which our.own experience confirms true. We need to realize, therefore, it there is never a time when God the ther is not near U3 to lead us in:o His In the hour when you feel the stir of inity within you, in the hour when con;nce speaks and says, be a nobler man, urer man. a truer man, in that hour "it [jod which worketh in you." Possibly was but "yesterday that you spoke the tind word that wounded a devoted rt, or gained your point in business by ling vour fellow man. or committed a that leaves a blot on the scutcheon, but 'rward, unless your heart is already d, you heard a still small voice pleadwith you to repent your evil way and a better, higher life. It was "God cli worketh in you." Multiplied are the experiences in which [ is speaking to our souls, and many of lave never heard the voice. Ears have but we hear not. We have eyes bat we to see. There are great crowds who lple upon the beautiful violet, never king that they have one of God'a ?test thoughts under their heel. There myriads of stolid eyes which look up1 to the stars but see not God's glory te robed beauty of the sky. There are itudes who stand beneath the magnifiblue vault of heaven, gazing upon gorgeous sunset, never dreaming that 'ighted the fire. And beyond number hey who fail to feel the presence of $n the ordinary experiences of life, -iends, God wants our life. Do sopiet with your life. Let your energy, Jalent, your sendee be for God your Be not so concerned to save your sj to save your life. Give God your 1*1 He will sanctify your soul. God's Service. I;ht within those cherished days of d? ays that knew the tinge of morning y night's blue star veil vanishes on . *2Jes the first wild radiance of gold -Me hazy lengths of field and wold, iiy chief services to Him must lie I devotion thro' the inner eye Ration, opening toward the fold, "u the vast is gray, and I Lave ned Lone ? ah, how the truth has ced me through! Tu^pproval is the fullest earned ^\ntp in the Kindly deeds we do; Gooice is as broad as needs that cry, Godjce knits man to eternity! ?L. Jennings, in Religious Herald. True and the Artificial. H difficult to distinguish between the y the artificial. The moral test is tlione. When conscience is sensitive g will submissive, and the life consithere is no doubt about one's spirit When the soul sings: "I delight Thy will, 0, God,'.' and then does to do God's will, or does the will orom firm resolve, there can be no dc^hen one loathes sin and tries to letall 8in> all kinds of sin?sin againsody, sin against the soul, sin againsgigbbor, sin again Christ and the F?here is no difficulty in reaching. an as to the genuineness of Christ.acter. It is no mirage. The garden Lord j3 there.?Bishop John H. Vir _ ( . : Your Temper Over. ' If >'cnot born with a good temper. m; temper over. If cheeriness and pa.nd amiability are not natural, c them as a second nature. Ko one really happy who is irritable amnding, and what is worse, he rembearest and dearest equally unhappiermination can conquer these f*d a disposition as full of pricks ajble bush can be rendered jweet aquil and lovable. Don't imagine gt accept the nature you inherited any attempt at change , >r altera jt js not what you want, ^0 make it ilsrn ot Jesus. Tou rethe famous line of Robert Browning jn jjjg heaven, all's ight wityidy That was tne one source o^inism of Browning, but he optnfesua weat a great deal leeper. 1e fact that God was in Jis earthjbe ravens were fed and he lilies Drned, and so that the ,*ery hair^'g bead are numbered? t was tnijaye a radiant Quietude o Cbrist.^orrison, _