Decatur Democrat, Volume 38, Number 16, Decatur, Adams County, 5 July 1894 — Page 7

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Iw i /rs [S 7 /Elllj _1 zr ij UAi tu CHAPTER XIV. 818 CTf’RIXN BAI HIS SUSPICIONS. Sir Cyprian Davenant hud not forgotten that dinner at Richmond given by Gilbert Sinclair a little while before his departure for Africa, at which ha had met the handsome widow to whom Mr. Sinclair was then supposed to be engaged. The fact was. brought more vividly back to his mind by a circumstance that came under hl* notice the evening after he had accepted Lord Clanyarde's invitation to Marchbeook. He had been dining at his club with an old college friend, and had consented, somewhat unwillingly, to an adjournment to one of the theaters near the Strand, at which a popular burlesque was being played for the' three hundred and sixty-fifth time. Sir Cyprian entertained a cordial detestation of this kind of entertainment, in which the low comedian of the c<m pany enacts a distressed damsel in short petticoats and a flaxen wig, while pretty actresses swazger in costumes of the cavalier period, and ape the manners of the mu-ic-hall swell. But it was 10 o’clock. The friends had recalled all the old Oxford follies in the days when they were under-graduates together in Tom Quad. They had exhausted these reminiscences and a magnum of Lafitte, and though Sir Cyprian would have gladlv gone back to his chambers and his books. Jack Dunster, his friend, was of a livelier temperament, and wanted to finish the evening. “Let’s go and see ‘Hercules and Ompha'e’ at the Kaleidoscope,” he said. “It's no end of fun. Jeem-on plays Omphale In a red wig, and Minnie Vavasour looks awfully fascinating in Kink satin boot sand lion-skin. We shall e just in time for the breakdown.” Sir Cyprian assented with a yawn. He had seen fifty such burlesque} as “Hercules and Omphale” in the days when such things had their charm for him, too, when he could be pleased with a pretty girl in pank satin hessian*, or be moved to laughter by Jeemson’s painted nose and falsetto scream. They took a hansom and drove to the Kaleidoscope, a bandbox of a theater screwed into an awkward corner of one of the narrowest streets in London—a street at which well-bred carriage horses accusto red to the broad thoroughfares of Belgravia shied furiously. It was December, and there was no one worth speaking of in town; but the little Kaleldosc pe was crowded, notwithstanding. Tr ere were just a brace of empty stalls in a draughty corner for Sir Cyprian and Mr. Dunster. The breakdown was just on, the pretty little Hercules flourishing his club, and exhibiting a white round arm with a diamond bracelet above the elbow. Omphale was showing her ankles, to the delight of the groundlings, the violins were racing one another, and the flute squeaking its shrillest in a vulgar negro melody, accentuated by rhythmical bangs on the big drum. The audience were in raptures, and rewarded the exertions of band and dancers with a double recall. Sir Cyprian stifled another yawp and looked around the house. Among the vacuous countenances, all intent on tho spectacle* there was one face which wa< out of the common, ani which expressed a supreme we irino s. A lady sitting alone in a stage box, with one rounded arm resting indolently on tho velvet cushion—an arm that might have been ca wed in marble, bare to tho elbow, its warm, human ivory relieved by the yellow hue of an old Spanish point ruffle. Where had Cyprian Davenant teen that face before? The lady had passed the fir. t bloom of youth, but her beauty was of that character that does not fade with youth. She wa i of the Pauline Borgheso typo, a woman worthy to be modeled by a now Canova. “I remember,” said Sir Cyprian to himself. “It wm at that Richmond dinner that I me' her. She Is the lady Gilbert Sinclair was io have married?’ He folt a curious interest in this woman, whose name even he had forgotten. Why had not Sinclair married her? oho was strikingly handsome, with a bolder, grander beauty than Constance Clanyarde's fragile and poetic loveliness —a woman whom such a man us Sinclair might havenatural’y chosen. Just as such a man would choose a high-stepping chestnut horse, without being too nice as to fineness and delicacy of line. “And I think from the little I saw that tho lady was attached ts him," mused Sir Cyprian. Ho glanced at the stage-box several times before tho end of the performance. The lady was quite slope, and sat in the same attitude, fanning herself languidly, and hardly looking at the stage. Just as the curtain fell, Sir Cyprian heard the click of tho box dcols, and looking up,[saw that a gentlendbn had entered. The lady rose, and he came forward a little to, assist in the arrangement of her erminelined mantle. The gentleman was Gilbert Sinclair. “What do you think of it?” asked J nek Dunster, as they went out into tho windy lobby, where people were crowded, together waiting for their carriages. “Abominable,” murmured Sir Cy“Why, Minnie Vavasour is the prettiest actress in London, and Jeemson’s

“I beg your yardon. I was not think- 1 ing of ths burlesque," answered Sir Cyprian, hastily. Gilbert and his companion were just in front of them. 1 “Shall I go and look for your carriage?” asked Mr. Sinclair. > “It ycu like. But as you left mo to sit out this dreary rubbish by myself all the evening, you might just us well have let me find my way to my carriage." , "Don’t be angry with me for breakirg my engagement. I was obliged to gj out shooting with some fellows, . and 1 didn't leave Ma’dstone ti:l nine o’clock. I think I paid you a considerable compliment in traveling thirty miles to hand you to your carriage. No other w man could expect so much from me.” “You are not going back to Davenant to-night.” “No; there is a supper on at the Al-' bion. Lord Cols erd ale’s trainer is to be there, and I expect to get a wrinkle or two from him. A simple matter of i business, I assure you. ” “Mrs. Walsingham's carriage!” roar- : ed the waterman. “Mrs. Walsingham,” thought Sir ' Cyprian, who was squeezed into a cor- 1 ter with his friend, walled up by I opera-cloaked shoulders, and within, ear-shot of Mr. Sinclair. “Yes, that's her name. ” “That saves you all trouble, ” said Mrs. Wa'singham. “Can I set you I down anywhere?” “No, thanks; the Albion’s close by. ” Sir Cyprian struggled out of his c orner just in, time to see Gilbert shut the brougham door and walk off through ! the December drizzle. “So that acquaintance is not a drop-' ped one,” he thought. “It augurs ill lor Constance.” Three days later he was riding out i Barnet way, in a quiet country lane, as rural and remote in aspect as an accommodation road in the shires, when he passed a brougham with a lady in it—Mrs. Walsingham s carriage again, and again alone. “This looks like fatality,” he thought. He had been riding Londonward, but turned his horse and followed the carriage. This solitary drive, on a dull, gray winter day, so far from London, struck him as curious. There might be nothing really suspicious in the fact. Mrs. Walsingham might have friends in this northern district. But after what he had seen at the Kaleidoscope. Sir Cyyrian was inclined to suspect Mrs. Walsingham. That she still cared for Sinclair he was assured. He had seen her face light up when Gilbert entered the box; he had seen that suppressed anger which is the surest sign of a jealous, exacting love. Whether Gilbert still c ared for her was another question. His meeting her at the theater might have been a conces don to a dangerous woman rather than a spontaneous act of devotion. Sir Cyprian followed the brougham into the sequestered village of Totteridge, where it drew up before the garden gate of a neat cottage with green blinds and a half-glass door—a cottage which looked like the abode of a spinster annuitant. Here Mrs. Walsingham alighted and went in, opening the half-gla s door with the air of a person accustomed to enter. He rode a little way further, and then walked his horse gently back. The brougham was still standing before the garden gate, and Mrs. Walsingham was walking up and down a gravel path by the side of the house with a woman and a child-a child in a scarlet hood, just able to toddle along the path, sustained on each side by a supporting hand. “Some poor relation's child, perhaps, ” thought Cyprian. “A friendly visit on the lady’s part.” He had ridden further than he intended, and stopped at a little inn to give his horse a feed of corn and an hour’s rest, while he strolled through the village and looked at the old-fash-ioned church-yard. The retired spot was not without its interest. Yonder was Coppet Hall, the place Lord Melbourne once occupied, and which had, later, pas ed into the possession of the author of that splendid series of brilliant and various novels which reflect as in a magic mirror all the varieties of life from the age of Pliny to the eve of the Franco-Prussian war. “Who lives in that small house with the green blinds?” asked Sir Cyprian, as be mounted his horse to ride home. “It’s been took furnished, sir, by a lady from London for her nurse and baby.” "V z “Do you know tho lady’s name?" “I can't say that I do, sir. They has their beer from the brewer, and pays ready money for everyth ink. But I 830 the lady's brougham go by not above ’alf an hour ago.” “Curious," thought Sir Cyprian. “Mrs. Walsingham is not rising in my opinion." * CHAPTER XV. o “THEY LIVE TOO LONG WHO HAPPINESS OUTLIVE.” In accepting Lord Clanyarde's invitation, Cyprian Davenant had but one thought, one motive—to be near Constance. Not to tee her. He knew that such a meeting could bring with it only bitterness for both. But he wanted to ce near her, to ascertain at once and forever the whole unvarnished truth as to her domestic^life, the extent of her unhanplness, if she was unhappy. Rumor might exaggerate. Even the practical solicitor Jarnos Wyatt might represent the state of affairs as worse than it wa ; . The human mind leads to vivid coloring and bold dramatic effect. An ill-used wife and a tyrannical husband present one of those powerful pictures which society contemplates with interest. Society represented generally by Lord Dundreary likes to pity just as it likes to wonder. At Marchbrook Sir Cyprian was likely to learn the truth, and to Marchbrook he went, affecting an interest in pheasants, and in Lord Clanyarde’s conversation, which was like a rambling and unrevised edition of the “Greville Memoirs, ” varied with turf reminiscences. There was wonderfully fine Weather

shy, and after the first day Sir Cyprian left them to their retirement, pi eferring long, lonely rides among the scenes of his boyhood, and half-hours of friendly chat with ancient gaffers and goodies who remembered his father and mother, and tho days when Davenant had ttill held up its head in the occupation of the old race. "This noo gentleman, he do spend a power o’ money; but he’ll never be looked up to like old Sir Cyprian,” said the gray-halrcd village sage, leaning over nis gate to talk to young Sir Cyprian. In one of his rounds Cyprian Davenant looked in upon tho abode of Martha Briggs, who was still at home. Her parents were in decent circumstances, and not eager t > see their daughter “suited” with a new service. Martha remembered Sir Cyprian as a friend of Mrs. Sine air’s before her marriage. She ha I seen them out walking together in the days when Constance Clanyarde was still in the nursery; for Lord Clanyarde’s youngest daughter had known no middle stage between the nursery and her Majesty's drawing-room. Indeed, Marr tha had had her own ideas about Sic Cyprian, and had quite made up hep mind that Miss Constance would marry him. She was therefore disposed to be confidential, and with very slight encouragement told Sir Cyprian all about that sad time at Schoene.sthal, how her mistrestf 'find nur. ed her through a fever, And how the sweetest child that ever lived had been drowned through that horrid French girl s carelessness. “It’s all very well to boa-t of jumping into the river to save the darling," exclaimed Martha; “but why did she go and take the precious pet into a dangerous place? When 1 had her, I could see danger beforehand. 1 didn't want to be told that a hill was steep, or that grass was slippery. I never did like foreigners, and now I hate them like poison, ” cried Miss Briggs, ns if under the impression that the whole continent of Europe was implicated in Baby Christabels death. “It must have been a great grief to Mrs. Sinclair,” said Sir Cyprian. “Ah, poor dear, she'll never hold up her head again,” sighed Martha. “I saw her in church last Sunday, in the beautifulest black bonnet, and if ever I saw anyone going to heaven, it’s her. And Mr. Sinclair will have a lot of company, and there are all the windows at Davenant blazing with light till past 12 o’clock every night—my cousin James is a pointsman on the Southeastern, and sees the house from the line—while that poor, sweet lady is breaking her heart.” “But surely Mr. Sinclair would defer to his wife in these things,” sugge-ted Sir Cyprian. “Not he, sir. For the last twelve months that I was with my dear lady I seldom heard him say a kind word to her. Always snarling and sneering. I do believe he was jealous of that precious innocent because Mrs. Sinclair was so fond of her. I'm sure if it hadn’t been for that dear baby my mistress would have been a miserable woman.’ This was a bad hearing, and Sir Cyprian went back to Marchbrook that evening sorely depressed. ” |TO BE CONTINUED. I ITALIAN BANKS IN NEW YORK. The Way the Italian Bankers Rob Depositors of Their Money. The Italian banks, of New York, es which there are about 132, are patronized by the most ignorant Italian laborers. The bankers, who are of a little higher grade than the laborers, do a great variety of work, sending money to Italy, writing letters, acting as adviser and sometime j changing the office into an employment agency. Money is given to a banker by tho laborers to be sent to Italy. If he choozes to send it right away, he does; if not — he waits till he gets icady, sometimes (Bever sending it. All the customers’ letters come to the banker and, as very few of the depositors can read, he reads to them whatever he wishes to. The bankers are expected to work without compensation, and so they swindle the customers to obtain it. If a depositor wishes to go some place he has a banker buy his ticket and is overcharged by that person, who keeps the surplus for himself to pay him for his trouble. During the past eight months fourteen Italian bankers absconded in New York. The reason that so many got out is on account of the hard times. The depositors, being out of work, go to the bank to get their savings, but the banker, having probably been juggling with the money, is unable to meet the demands and is forced to run away. Os cou.se all of the bankers are not dishonest. The fact that $5,000,1:00 annually passes through their hands shows that the criminal element is not in control. "A Touching Demonstration. Shortly after the surrender of the Southern army Gen. R. E. Lee was riding along one day through a rather dreary stre ch of county, in Virginia when he espied a plainoiupbuntryman. mounted on a sorry nag coming toward him. As they pa ; sed each other both bowed, as is the fashion when strangers meet in out-of-the-way places, b it the old farmer in the home-spun suit stared hard at the soldierly figure a} though not quite certain of recognition. He went his way a little further, then turning his horse around, cantered back and soon came up with the General again. “I beg pardotf, sir, but is not this Gen. Robert Lee?” “Yes, lam Gen. Lee. Did I ever meet you before, my friend?””.. Then the old Confederate grasped the chieftain’s hand, and with tho tears streaming down his face, said.“Gen. Lee, do you mind if I cheeryou?The General assured’ him that he didn’t mind, and there? on that lonesome, pine-bordered highway, with no one else in sight, the old rebel veteran, with swinging hat, lifted up his voice in three ringing rounds of hurrahs for the man that the southland idolized. Then both went their way without another word being spoken. It was a display of affection which the General never forgot. The name “Indian" was given to the inhabitants of America by Columbus, from his belief that the country which he had discovered was an extension of India, the country known to occupy the extreme of the Eastern hemisphere. Count Tolstoi maintains that a man cannot bo both a Christian and a P• ■ ; HONOR to those whose words or deeds

TALMAGE’ION PREACHER TAUfLOWERS OF Tn. From a Far Danil t « Semi* Hl* Conception nl .<• Great Gardener— Deacrlj nis In a Desert of Sin. The Ro Rev. Dr. Talma v nearing Australia on 1 world journey, has seloubject for his sermon ti ss this week. “The Roy le text being taken from ig v, 1, “I am come into r The world ha; many beautiful garden; ne added to the glory by decreeing that the* ed all through the rea even the names of th*? lanted there. Henry IV er. established gardens jeauty and luxuriance, them Aldine, Pyrenean ilants. One of the sweete.h was the garden of tipoet. His writings have e impression on the warden, “The Leasowes.” hl. To the natural advai place was brought ths it art. Arbor and terrace|rustic temple and reserv fountain here had 11 Oak and yew and ha their richest foliage. ) life more diligent, no mious than that of She 1 that dilligence and gei jht to the adornment osured spot. He sold it f< The Garden ’ And yet I am tc icher garden than any 11. It is the garden spout, the garden of the chu longs to Christ, for m He bought it, He plants it, and He shall havticott, in his outlay at Al id his fortune. And now flowers of those garett most think or Imagine t alood of that old man’s The payment of the*as ficed him. But I hav that Christ's life and C were the outlay of this en of the church of whioaks. Oh, how many i > and pangs and agonies 3 women who saw him e, ye executioners who I let Him down! Tell • that didst hide ye rock hrist loved the ciiurch a If for it.” If, then, thejurch belongs to Christ, has a right to walk in n, O blessed Jesus, thii kjip and down these ais vhat thou wilt of sweeti The church, in >propriately compared ause it is a place of eho deet fruits, and of thoro Christ, th. That would be a i in which there were nowhere else, they the borders or at the g >meliest taste will diet if it be the old fashi:, or dahlia, or coreopsi be larger means the the Mexican cactus, ined arbutelion, and b and clustering oleandei irist comes to his gaiants there some of tne fathat ever flowered uponome of them are violets but sweet in heaven, wch for such spirits to f. do not see them vert but you find where the the brightening face land the sprig of geranlhnd, and the window c out the glare of the si are perhaps more lik lus, creeping sweetly a and briers of life, giving and many a man who hi way some great black has found that they ha all over with tloweri ling in and out amid th iese Christians in Chr not like the sunflower, fht, but whenever dark r a sOul that needs to h ere they stand, night jes. But in Christ’s gar( mts that may be better the Mexican cactus—th iveliness within—men ints of character. Thiost every one ( .fhat tou beyare hard to handknee them nothing but rist ~loves them, notwit ieir sharpness. Many i ery hard ground to chas only been through has raised even the smitce. Concernin A very harsh mi ing with a very placid e cid elder said to the tiaioctor, I do wish vou vt>ur temper.” “Ah,” s» to the elder, “I contra in five minutes than yrs.” It is harder for somfcht than tor others to d«iee that would elevate yith 1 heaven might not her I from knocking a nfl a 1 friend who came w “I dare not >join the kid, “Why?” ,“Oh,”hefch a violent temper. |ng > I was crossing very iey | City ferry, and I san r a large amount of wi ilk can, and Isaidto hit ill do,’ and he insulted led him down. Do you to join the church? ’ tat very same man. wh< in his behavior, loved ild not speak of sacre >ut tears of emotion am -ns without, but swee he' best specimen ot Me er saw. There are others t’s garden who are alwi lys. radiant, always imp<ke the roses in deep >ccasionally find calleie” —tho Martin Lutherysostoms, Wvklifs, Lnuel Rutherfords. Men is a spark, in them 1 in. When they sweat, at drops of blood. Vy, their prayer takes by preach, it is a Pentfcy fight, it is

[ great many roses in the gardens, but ' only a few “giants of battle.” Men say, “Why don't you have more of them In tno church?” I say, “Why don't you have in the wprld more Napoleons and Humboldts and Wellingtons?” God gives to some ten talents, to another one. The Snowdiop of Christian*. ,t In this garden of the church, which a Christ has planted, i also find the snowdrops, beautiful but cold looking, seemingly another phase of the winter. i mean those Christians who are precise in their tastes, unimpassioned, j I pure as srowdrops and as cold. They , ' never shed any tears; they never get excited; they never say anything ' rashly; they never do anything precipitately. Their pulses never flutter; ’ their nerves never twitch: their indignation never boils over. They live longer than most people,but their life is in a ‘ minor key, They never run up to | “C” above the staff. In the music of their life they have no staccato pas- . sages. Christ planted them in the church, and they must be of some " service, or they would not be there. ’ Snowdrops, always snowdrops. 1 But I have not told you of the most beautiful flower in ali this garden "* spoken of in the text. If you see a ’ “century plant,” your emotions are started. You say, “Why, this flower ’ has been a hundred years gathering ' up for one bloom, and it will be a Hundred years more before other petals • will come out.” But 1 have to tell you of a plant that was gathering up from all eternity, and that I,!HX) years ' I ago put forth its bloom never to wither. It is the passion flower of the I cross! foretold-it. Bethle- ' hem shepherds looked upon it in the b bud; the rocks shook at its bursting, ’ and the dead got up in their winding sheets to see its full bloom. It is a crimson flower—blood at the roots.blood on the branches, blood on all the leaves. Its perfume is to fill all the nations. Its touch is life, its breath is Heaven. Come O winds, from the 1 North and winds from the South and winds from the East and winds from the West, and bear to all the earth the sweet smelling savor of Christ, my 1 Lord. His worth, if all th* nations knew. Sure the whole earth would loxe Him too. Again, the church may be appropriately compared to a garden, because it is a place of select fruits. That would be a strange garden which had in it no berries, no plums, no peaches or apricots. The coarser fruits are planted in the orchard or they are set out on the sunny hillside, but the choicest fruits are kept in the garden. The Choicest Fruits. So in the world outside the church Christ has planted a great many beautil ul things-patience, charity, generosity, integrity—but He intends the > choicest fruits to be in the garden, and if they are not there then shame on 1 the church. Religion is not a mere flowering sentimentality. It is a practical. life giving, healthful fruit-not posies, but apples. “Oh,” says somebody, ‘I don t see what your garden of the church has yielded.” Where did your asylums come from, and your hospitals, and your institutions of merer? Christ planted every one of them. He planted them in His garden. When Christ gave sight to Bartimeus, He laid the cornerstone of every blind asylum that has ever been built. When Christ soothed the demoniac of Galile, He laid the, cornerstone of every lunatic asylum that ever has been established. When Christ said to the sick man, “Take up thy bed and walk,” He laid the cornerstone of every hospital the world has ever seen. When Christ said, “I was in prison, and ye visited me.” He laid the cornerstone of every prison reform association that has ever been formed. The church of Christ is a glorious garden, and it is full of fruit. 1 know there is some poor fruit in it. I know therg are some weeds that ought to have been thrown over the fence. 1 know there are some crab apple trees that ought to be cut down. 1 know there are some wild grapes that ought to be uprooted, but are you going to destroy the whole garden becau-e of a little gnarled fruit? You will find worm eaten leaves in Fontainebleau and insects that sting in the fairy f roves of the Champs Elysees. You o not tear down and destroy tile whole garden because there are a few specimens of gnarled friiit. I aamit there are men and women in the church who ought not to be there, but let us be just a; frank and admit the fact that there are hundreds and thousands and tens of thousands of glorious I Christian men and women holy. I blessed, useful, consecrated, and tri- ' umphant. There is no grander tollec- - tion in all the earth than the collection of Christians. A Well Watered Garden. Again, the church in my text is appropriately called a garden because it is thoroughly irrigated. No garden, could prosper long without plenty of water. I have seen a garden in the midst of a desert, yet blooming and luxurient. All around was dearth and ■ barrenness, but there were pipes, ! aqueducts reaching from this garden I up to the mountains, and through those i aqueducts the water came streaming ‘ down and tossing up into beautiful fountains until every root and leaf and flower was saturated. That is like the church. The church is a garden in 1 the midst of a great desert of sin and : I suffering. It is well irrigated, for “our j I eyes are unto the hills, from whence corueth our help.” From the mountains of God's strength there flow down rivers of gladness. There is a river i the stream w’hereof shall make glad I the city of our God. Preaching the gospel is one of these aqueducts. The I Bible is another. Baptism and the Lord's supper are aqueducts. Water to slake the thirst, water to restore ihe faint, water to wash the unclean, water tossed high up in the lisrht of the sun of righteousness, showing us the rainbow around the throne. Oh, was there ever a garden so thoroughly irrigated? You know the beauty of Versailles and Chatsworth depends very much upon the great supply of water. I came to the latter place (Chatsworth) one day when strangers are not to be admitted, but by an inducement, which always seemed as applicable toan Englishman as an American; 1 got in. and then the gardener went far up above the .stairs of stone and turned on the water. I saw it gleaming on the dry pavement, coming down from step to step, until it came so near I could hear the musical rush, and all over the high, broad stairs it came foaming, flashing, roaring down until sunlight and wave in gl 86801110 wrestle tumbled at my feet. I 89 ll I. with the church of GcxL ftnry. A.’,» ..... .-a.

t thing comes from above —pardon from i above, joy from above, anop- [ tion from above, sanctification r from above. Oh, that now God would turn on the waters of salvation that they might flow down through his heritage and that this day we might each find our places to be “Elims,” with twelve wells of water and threescore and ten palm trees. The Gardener Come*. Hark, I hear the latch at the garden fate, and I look to see who is coming! hear the voice of Christ, “I am come into my garden.” I say: “Come in, O Jesus; we have been waiting for thee. Walk all through these paths. , Look at the flowers; look at the fruit. Pluck that which thou wilt for thy1 self.” Jesus comes into the garden and up to that old man and touches him and says: “Almost home, father. Not many more aches for three. I will never leave thee. I will never forsake thee. Take courage a little longer, and 1 will steady thy tottering steps, and I will soothe thy troubles, and give thee rest. Courage, old man.” Then Christ goes up another garden path, and he comes to a soul in trouble and says: “Peace: all is well! I have seen tby tears; I have heard thy prayer. The sun shall not smite thee by day, nor the mojm by night. The Lord shall preserve thee from all evil. He will preserve thy soul. Courage, O toubled spirit!” Then I see Jesus going up another garden path, and I see great excitement among the leaves, and I hasten up that garden path to see what Jesus is doing there, and, 10, He is breaking oft flowers, sharp and clean, from the stem, and Isay, “Stop, Jesus; don't kill those beautiful flowers.” He turns to me and says: “I have come into.my garden to gather lilies, and I mean to take these up to a higher terrace and for the garden around my. palacOi, and there 1 will plant them and in better soil and in better air. They shall put forth brighter leaves and sweeter redolence, and no forest shall touch them forever.” And i looked up into His face and said: "Well, it is His garden, and He has a right to do what He will with it. Thy will be done”-<-the hardest prayer a man ever made. I notice that the fine gardens sometimes ,have high fences around them, and I cannot get in. It is so with the King’s garden. The only glimpses you ever get of such a garden is when the King lides out in his splendid carriage. It is not so with this garden—the King's uarden. I throw wide open the gate and tell you ail to come in. No monopoly in religion. Whosoever will, may. Choose now between a desert and a garden. Many of you have tried the garden of this world s delight. You hava found it has been a chagrin. So it was with Theodore Hook. He made all the world laugh. He makes us laugh now when we read his poems, but he co aid not make his own heart laugh. While in the midst of his festivities, he confronted a looking glass, and he saw himself and said: “Tnere, that is true. I look just as I am, done up in body, mind, and purse.” So it was with Shenstone, of whose garden I told you at the beginning of mv sermon. ‘-Save Me Next!” He sat down amid those bowers and said: “I have lost my road to happiness. I am angry and envious and frantic and despise" everything around me, just as it Incomes a madman to do.” Oh, ye weary souls, come into Christ’s garden to-day and pluck a little heartsease! Chrisu is the only rest and the only pardon for a perturbed spirit. Do you not think your chance has almost come? You men and women who have been waiting year and year for some good opportunity in which to accept Christ, but have postponed it five, ten, twenty, thirty years, do not feel as if now your hour of deliverance and pardon and salvation had come? Oh man, what grudge hast thou against thy poor soul that thou wilt not let it be saved? I feel as if salvation must come now to some of your hearts. Some years ago a vessel struck on the rocks. They had only one lifeboat. In that lifeboat the passengers and crew were gett ns ashore. The vessel had foundered and was sinking deeper and deeper, and that one boat could not take the passengers very swiftly. A little girl stood on the deck, waiting for her turn to get into the boat. The boat came and went —came and went — but her turn did not seem to come. After awhile she could wait no longer, and she leaped on the taffrail and then sprang into the sea, crying to the boat- ! man: “Save me next! Save me next!” 1 Oh, how many have gone ashore i nto ! God’s mercy, and yet you are clinging to the. wreck of sin! Others have accepted the pardon of Christ, but you are in peril. Why not this morning make a rush for your immortal rescue, crying until Jesus shall hear you and heaven and earth ring with the cry: ‘Save me next! Save me next. A Problem. In those regions of Kentucky known as the “knobs” the country is : so rough that all hauling has to be , done on a sort of sled, and vehicles I of any other sort of description are almost unknown. One day—of course it must have been a very long time ago—a traveler who had lost his way, strayed into this rough country, thro gh which he made his way as best he could in a phaeton which had very small front wheels. As he drove slowly oh, he noticed an increasing procession of stragglers who followed the vehicle, with their eyes apparently fixed on its runninggear. The procession was principally composed of bo s, and at last the occupant of the phaeton become so irritated by this uninvited esco t, that he stop ed the horse and demanded of the leader of the procession, a lank, scrawny boy, about 15 years old, what he and his friends wanted. “Why,” replied the boy, with eyes still fastened on the vehicle, “we wanted to see how fer you’d get before lour big wheels cotched the little ones!” We have an idea that a girl who has a mustache is as touchy about it as a boy who hasn’t one. Instead ot mourning over wasted opportunities, resolve to improve those yet to coma As soon as a woman gets married, she begins to think »of having her