Decatur Democrat, Volume 39, Number 10, Decatur, Adams County, 24 May 1895 — Page 5

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CHAPTER V.—(Continued.) “I don’t think much of your celebrated detective,” eaid Mrs. Ruthven.- “He is by no means the monosyllabic inscrutable man one reads of m novels. I have no faith in detectives ivho talk so much.” “I fancy the inscrutable men only exist tn fiction,” returned Marsden, smiling. "This person has, however, done some remarkable things. I believe he is conlidered a very valuable officer.” The day after Mrs. Ruthven and her host went up to town the party broke up; the great house was closed, and impenetrable darkness still wrapped the great jewel robbery. Meanwhile, the extraordinary story was spread abroad. The newspapers, thankful for such subject matter in the dead season, had paragraphs each day on this exciting topic, and when they had exhausted conjecture, short articles, moral, religious, jocose, philosophic, philological, antiquarian, filled up convenient portions . of their space. “The Thunderer” remarked shortly, that the crimes of a period bore the stamp of its Intellectual characteristics. Extreme ingenuity and logical precision were essential to project aid execute so daring, ao original a robbery as that which had lately startled society at Evesleigh Manor; that probably when statistics, mathematics and registration had been perfected and properly applied, we should find that only in the first decade of the last quarter of the nineteenth cen-tury-only at this precise epoch—could this special outrage have been committed. “The Banner” traced this remarkable and heinous act to one fruitful source of evil, moral, social and religious, neglect of due instruction in the church catechism and of committing the Ten Commandments to memory—and apropos, drew a pathetic picture of a gray-haired rector standing beneath the east window of the village church, through which the light streamed in many-tinted rays on the rosy, chubby reverent urchins, who repeated in awe-struck tones after their .beloved pastor, “Thou shalt not steal!” ( , “The Daily Instructor” proved incontrovertibly from certain racial indications, that so base and infernal a plot could only be conceived by an AmericanIrishman, with a dash of Russian blood from, say a great-uncle, or perhaps a strain of Malay on the mother’s side; while “The Delirium Tremens" grew hysterical over an appalling list of robberies, with and without bloodshed, battery, torture and murder, from the earliest date to the present crime, which, from certain characteristics, might be considered the most audaciously wicked of nil. 4 “The Universe,” in its usual lively style, hinted that among the better informed of those present at the Evesleigh festivities, whispers were circulated that the over-strained enthusiasm of a ritualistic and self-subduing curate, whoso taste for ecclesiastical magnificence was in the inverse ratio to his regard for personal cleanliness, had been carried away by visions—the result of overfasting and [ meditation—that he had annexed the lost rubies for the decoration of a favorite image of the Virgin in the new and splendid church of St. Withold the Wool-gath-erer Within, and that Mrs. Ruthven, with the generous sympathy and delicate tact which distinguished her, was arranging for the substitution of an admirable imitation, modeled at her own expense, of the lost rubies and diamonds, so as to lave the pious young man’s taste and feelings; and to this project the delay in the progress of justice was due. To this dastardly attack the “Churchman’s Friend” replied with vigorous indignation, and much fine writing ensued, till a fresh trail presented itself, and for awhile public interest was diverted from the Evesleigh robbery. CHAPTER VI. The sudden burst of life and gayety In the long-deserted manor house, made its quickly succeeding silence and gloom more marked and depressing. Lady {Dorrington tried to persuade Nora to accompany her to Scotland, where Lord Dorrington had shootings, but the young lady said she could not think of leaving Mrs. L’Estrange, and Mrs. L’Estrange would not leave her little girl; so everything returned to the same condition of stillness and tranquility which Marsden’s unexpected appearance and. outburst of hospitality had broken up. But this stillness was no longer restful. The curious circumstances of the robbery had left behind an impression of insecurity, and Mrs. L’Estrange, whose natural timidity had been confirmed by long attendance upon an invalid and irritable husband, immediately made arrangements with the gardener to sleep In the house instead of in the lodge, and Waldman, the pet Dachshund, was al* r lowed to lie at the foot of tho stairs, while Nora herself Inspected the bolting and barfing of doors and windows every night. ■ “I assure £ou, you are alarming yourselves unnecessarily,” said Winton, who had ridden over, as he often did, to share the evening meal at Brookdale, and was now leaning against the chimney-piece while Nora was playing some of Bea’s favorite" airs before the little one went off to bed with her German “Kindergartnerin," who was patiently waiting for her. It tfas a chill, wild night, the wind sighing in sudden gusts through the trees surrounding the cottage, the occasional dash of the rain against the windows making the bright fire of wood and coal peculiarly acceptable Winton looked round him with a delightful sense of comfort—of being at home. The refined simplicity of the pretty drawing-room, the soft light of welltrimmed lamps—Mrs. L’Estrange in her demi-toilet of black silk and lace, her . woirk-baaket filled with bright-colored wools beside her, her small fingers deftly covering a square of dull green cloth with flowers and foliage—Nora at the piano, her graceful shoulders draped in dainty muslin -> gathered to her pliant waist by a band of black velvet—all had grown familiar to him He had had a hard life all through his boyhood; an orphan with barely enough meahi to supply z Mb Dx Mjwdi

who was cold though just, and bitterly disliked by his uncle’s wife, because his strong will and steady application always kept him ahead of her own handsome, clever, agreeable “ne’er-do-weel” of a son, with whom he was educated and who bore the same name, of home life he knew nothing; and when his resolute efforts to rise were crowned with success, success banished him to comparative solitude, while the few opportunities afforded him of social experience only showed him how infinitely his accomplished cousin was preferred before him, especially by women, of whom indeed he hod not the highest opinion. He had found them insincere, shallow, selfish, and though of late rather flatteringly attentive to himself, his grim appreciation of his unattractiveness led him to place it to the credit of his position rather than of himself. Nevertheless, the familiarity to which bygone comradeship with Mrs. L’Estrange entitled him, was very delicious. He had never been on such terms of intimacy with women before, and he was quick to percieve that his comings and goings caused no disturbance, that he had fallen into the march of their quiet lives, and felt that to part with them would be the keenest grief he had ever known. Them—or one? For awhile he scarcely knew. “You are alarming yourself unnecessarily,” he had been saying, when this digression began. “There is small chance of any professional thief visiting this part of the world for some time to come, but I suppose it is not easy to throw off the impression such a scene as you witnessed must have created.” “Good-night,” cried Bea, holding up a rosy mouth to be kissed. “Will you bring me a new spade to-morrow ?’ “Not to-morrow—the day after. Goodnight, Miss Beatrix—sleep well. Goodnight, fraulein.” Nora rose from the piano, and drew a low chair by the fire. “There is no use in arguing the matter,” she aid. “Helen cannot resist her nervousness. I myself, though I feel quite brave in the daylight, begin to be a little uncomfortable as night draws in, and I see Helen look up with a startled, restless look at any sudden sound, and really, after seeing what a daring thief can do, one’s faith in chains, bars and bolts dies away” “Our chief safeguard is the absence of valuables,” said Mrs. L’Estrange. “Do you think,” resumed Nora, “that it would be well to go up to town for a couple of months, just in the dead of the winter? We should throw off these disagreeable impressions and be our noble selves again.” “I do believe it would be the best thing you could do,” said Winton. “It is a capital idea. Os course, lam speaking selfishly. I must be in London a great part of November, and your nervousness may transfer itself to me if I find myself lonely and friendless in that vast wilderness.” Nora laughed. “I don’t fancy your nerves trouble you much. But it would be rather nice to go to the theater and concerts, sometimes.” “And you would be a capital escort,” said Mrs. L’Estrange, “though, perhaps, you do not care for such things?” “When I find acting that can make me forget it is acting, I am deeply interested, but a concert bores me, though I am very fond of certain kinds of music.” “If,” began Mrs. L’Estrange, going back to the subject uppermost in her mind, “if I had not seen that dreadful knife, I should feel less creepy.” “Don’t think about it, dear Helen,” cried Nora. “Go, glay a game of chess with Mr. Winton;4hat will effectually divert your thoughts.” » “I will, if you would like it, Mark—l mean,” smiling and coloring, “Mr. Winton.” “Yes, let us have a trial of strength, by all means.” “My strength is of the broken-reed order,” said Mrs. L’Estrange, smiling. “I will go and see Bea tucked up, and then do my best.” “I wonder,” began Nora, as Mrs. L’Estrange left the room, “I wonder what they are doing in London. If they have discovered anything!” She clasped her hands on her kne®, and sat looking dreamily into the fire. “Mrs. Ruthven promised to write to me, but she has not.” “There has scarcely been time,” said Winton, as he brought over the chesstable, and began to set forth the pieces. “And I fear there is small chance of discovery. It is unlucky for Marsden, too, for I suppose the best thing he can do is to marry the charming widow; they would suit each other admirably. Now, I should not be surprised if the notion that he is unlucky to her should take possession of her mind.” Winton watched Nora’s face as he spoke. “Poor Squire, I hope not; it would be a shame. He is so nice, and so is she. If he is fond of her I do hope she will marry him." “If? Then you do not agree with every one that he is devoted to her?” And while he spoke, Winton thought, “Is this acting or real idifference?” “I am not sure. I have scarcely seen them together. But I like her; she is very nice to me. Why don’t you like her, Mr. Winton?’ 1 “Why do you think I do not?” “I know it, because—oh! I can hardly tell. By the tone of your voice, by the expression of your eyes.” , “Hum! so my eyes can express dislike at any rate?” “Oh! they can express liking, too. I mean,” blushing quickly at the glance he gave her, “I mean they can look kindly; but am I right, you do not like Mrs. Ruthven ?” “The reason why I cannot tell. But I do not like the widow, ma belle!” said Winton. “Oh! bravo!” cried Nora, laughing. “I did not suspect you were capable of improvising." “I dare say I am capable of more than you imagine. I suppose I ought to assure you that I have no reason for disliking Mrs. Ruthven—it is an instinct.” — “I thought these instincts of liking and disliking Were characteristic of women; that men built up their preferences on a solid foundatiou.of reason.” “ We ought, and at least, I try to be just.” “I mu gfraid you are a little hard."

to be too •oft.” He looked down as bn spoke these words thoughtfully. “But in the battle of life we can rarely afford to lay aside our armor." “What a dreadful idea of life," said Nora with a sigh. Winton did not reply; he paused, his hand on a rook, and looked intently at his companion, whose eyes were fixed on the fire. "Now, Mr. Winton, I shall do my best to conquer,” said Mrs. L’Estrange, returning. Winton brought her a chair. “Do you never enre to learn?” he said to Nora oh he took his place. “I have tried. I used to try and play with my father, but I never could learn, I never could be interested; there is some deficiency, I suppose in me, for I never care if I win or lose at any game.” "Which shows an unmathematical, unpractical turn of mind," said Winton, smiling. "I wait your attack,” to Mrs. L’Estrange. For awhile Norn read the newspaper; then sho rose, and, leaning on the back of her step-mother’s chair, looked on at the game, as if watching an opportunity of speaking. “Check to your king,” said Mrs. L’Estrange at Inst. “You are not playing your best, Mr. Winton; is it negligence or politeness? No, you cannot move there, you are still in check, nor there either.” “It is checkmate!" replied Wintoni “well and quickly done, too!” “Then I may speak!" cried Nora. “There is a paragraph in the paper about the robbery. I will read it. ‘The mystery which enshrouds the great jewel robbery is still unsolved; but, although wo must on no account betray the secrets of the police, it is perhaps admissible to state that a faint clew has at length been found, Which in the experienced hands of a certain famous officer may, indeed will, probably, lead to the detection of the villains whose dastardly attack almost cost its object a serious illness. We are happy to state that Mrs. Ruthven has very nearly recovered the effects of'the shock to her nervous system, and is about to proceed to Italy for change of air and scene.’ ” “Which means,” said Winton, rising, “that the penny-a-liner knows nothing, nnd has no chance of knowing anything. When these fellows are most profoundly ignorant, they assume the greatest knowingness. But it is late! If you will allow me, I will say good-night, and make my way to the atablaa. I ean be my own groom.” “Oh! Roberts is in, I am sure, having a talk in the kitchen. He is our bodyguard now; he will bring your horse round.” Mrs. L’Estrange rang as she spoke, and ordered Mr. Winton’s horse. “What a dreadfully dark night!” said Nora, going to the open door a few minutes after, while Winton said good-bye to Mrs. L’Estrange. “It is raining, too. I am afraid you will get very wet!” There was genuine kindly interest in the eyes raised to his. “If you care whether I am wet or dry, alive or dead, I shall be obliged to lay aside my armor,” said Winton smiling, as his hand closed on hers A With a lingering pressure, so close, so warm, that it sent an electric thrill of surprise through her heart. "I shall come to-morrow to report myself, and bring you the ‘History of Blankshire’ we were speaking of. Goodnight!” And the sound of his horse’s tread soon died away. “I have such n headache, Helen. I think I shall go to bed—do you mind?” i “No; by no means. I would rather sleep than listen to that moaning wind. I hope we may have news of some kind from Lady Dorrington or Clifford Marsden to-morrow. The world seems to have left us stranded here.” They bid each other good-night and separated. But Nora sat long pondering, her elbowq on her dressing-table, her head on her hands, thinking with a startled, suddenly awakened, sense of alarm of the curious influence Mark Winton, without the smallest apparent effort on his part, had gained over her. From the first hour they met, he had attracted her unaccountably. He was not good-looking, or particularly agreeable or flattering. He was, on the contrary, silent, slightly abrupt, f and decidedly uncompromising; yet to "Nora there was veiled pathos in his eyes, and an utter unconsciousness of himself, that gave dignified simplicity to his manner. She was always wondering what he thought and how this or that would strike''him. Then, when he gradually came to talk to her of books, and topics off the dusty track of conventional clatter, the sincerity of his opinions, the tone of calm, clear common sense which pervaded his conversation, delighted and refreshed hdr. Strange to say, Respite her recognitions of his strength and self-sufficiency, Mrs. L’Estrange’s story of his his resolute struggle for touched a chord of tender heart; and in short before she was aware that he was more than an interesting acquaintance, Nora was in love with him. (To be continued.) „ ALL KINDS OF QUEER PETS. — : ? - Frogs, Owls and Cockroaches Trained •- by a Maryland Scientist. Harry C. Hopkins, one of the youngest members of the Maryland Academy of Science, has a special fondness for animals, says the Baltimore Sun. Among his earliest, -pets were three frogs, which he raised from tadpoles. They became so tame that they would recognize his voice and hop eagerly tc him whenever they heard him speak. His next pets were five screech owls, which he kept in the garret of his home. One of the owls, ufaich he called Bob, became so accustomed to his voice that It would screech back ui reply wb«n,called, and would haste to join Mr? Hopkins in the lower rooms of the house. Mr. Hopkins had at other times raccoons, opossums, foxes, white mice and white rats for pets. The latest pet in his collection was the most unique of them all, and was, perhaps, the only pet of the kind ever heard of. It was a roach—an ordinary brown roach—that ran out of ids desk one day and took a sip from a drop of ink that had fallen on the desk. Mr. Hopkins let the little creature indulge itself undisturbed, and one day induced it to take a sip from the point of his pen. After that to tame the roach was an easy matter, and he soon had it so tame that it would come from its hiding place when called, and would follow tlje pen over the paper while Mr. Hopkins wrote. Mr. Hopkins did not enjoy the society of this little pet long. A new servant with a mania for “cleaning up" and antipathy to roaches saw the pat on the desk one way, and killed

TALMAGE’S SERMON. THE PREACHER CHOOSES A CURIOUSLY UNIQUE TEXT. "The Likeness of the Hands of a Man Was Under Their Wings”-A Powerful Hortatory Discourse by the World’s Great Preacher. With Hand and Wing. Rev. Dr. Talmage’s sermon in the New York Academy of Music Sunday afternoon was a powerful and eloquent plea for practical Christianity. The subject as announced was, “Wing and Hand,” the text being Ezekiel x., 21, “The likeness of the hands of a man was under their wings.” While tossed on the sea between Australia and Ceylon I first particularly noticed this text, of which then and there I made memorandum. This chapter is all a-flut-ter with cherubim. Who are the cherubim? An order of angels, radiant, mighty, all knowing, adoring, worshipful. When painter or sculptor tried in temple at Jerusalem or in marble of Egypt to represent the cherubim, he made them part lion, or part ox, or part eagle. But much of that is an unintended burlesque of the cherubim whose majesty and speed and splendor we will never know until, lifted into their presence, we behold them for ourselves, as I pray by the pardoning grace of God we all may. But all the accounts Biblical, and all the suppositions human, represent the cherubim with wings, each wing about seven feet long, vaster, more imposing than any plumage that ever floated in earthly atmosphere. Condor in flight above Chimborazo, or Rocky Mountain eagle aiming for thejioonday sun, or albatross in piny with ocean tempest, presents no such glory. We can get an imperfect idea of the wing of cherubim by the only wing we see—the bird’s pinion—which is the arm of the bird, but in some respects more wondrous than the human arm; with poweriof making itself more light or more heavy; of expansion and contraction, defying all altitudes and all abysms; the bird looking down with pity upon boasting man as he toils up tho sides of the Ad iron clacks. while the wins. with a few strokes, puts the highest crags far beneath claw and beak. But the bird's wing is only a feeble suggestion of cherubim’s wing. The greatness of that, the rapidity of that, the radiance of that the Bible again and again sets forth. The Wing of Inspiration. My attention is not more attracted by those wings than by what they reveal when lifted. In two places in Ezekiel we are told there were hands under the wings, human hands, hands like ours, “The likeness of the hands of a man was under the wings.” We have all noticed the wing of the cherubim, but no one seems yet to have noticed the human hand under the wing. There are whole sermons, whole anthems, whole doxologies, whole millenniums in that combination of hand and wing. If this world is ever brought to God, it will be by appreciation of the fact that supernatural and human agencies are to go together; that which soars and that which practically works; that which ascends the heavens and that which reaches forth to earth; the joining of the terrestrial and the celestial; the hand and the wing. We see this union in the construction of the Bible. The wing of inspiration is in every chapter. What realms of the ransomed earth did Isaiah fly over! Over what battlefields for righteousness, what coronations, what dominions of gladness, what rainbows around the throne did St. John hover! But in every book of the Bible you just as certainly see the human hand that wrote it Moses, the lawyer, showing his hand in the Ten Commandments, the foundation of all good legislation; Amos, the herdsman, showing his gland in-similes drawn from fields and flocks; the fishermen apostles showing their hand when writing about gospel nets; Luke, the physician, showing his hand by giving especial attention to diseases cured; Paul showing his scholarly hand by quoting from heathen poets and making arguments about the resurrection that stand as firmly as on the <gay he planted them, and St. John shows his hand by taking his imagery from the appearance of the bright waters spread around the island of Patmos at hour of sunset, when he speaks of the sea of glass mingled with fire. Scores of hands writing the parables, the miracles, the promises, the hosannas, the \yqptures, the consolations, the woes of ■K's. Oh, the Bible is so human, so .full so sympathetic, so wet with tears, so triumphant with palm branches, that it takes hold of the human race as nothing else ever can take hold of it —each writer in his own style—Job, the scientific; Solomon, the royal blooded; Jeremiah, the despondent; Daniel, the abstemious and heroic—why, we know their style so well that we need not look to the top of the page to see who is the author. No more conspicuous the uplifting wing of inspiration than the hand, the warm hand, the flexible hand, the skillful hand of human Instrumentality. “The likeness of the hands of a man was under the wings.” Quality of Prayer. Again, behold this combination of my text in all successful Christian Work. We stand or kneel in our pulpits and social meetings and reformatory associations, offering prayer. Now, if anything has wings, it is prayer. It can fly farther and faster than anything I can now think of. In one second of time from where you sit it can fly to the throne of God and alight in England. In one second of time from where you sit it can fly to the throne of God and alight in India. It can girdle the earth in a shorter time than you can •eal a letter, or clasp a belt, f or hook an eye. Wings, whether that prayer Starts from an infant’s tongue, or the trembling lip of a centenarian, rising from the heart of a farmer’s wife standing at the dashing churn, or before the hot breath of a country oven, they soar away and pick out of all the shipping of the earth, on all the seas, the craft on which her sailor boy is voyaging. Yes, prayer can fly clear down into the future. When the father of Queen Victoria was dying, he asked that the infant Victoria might be brought while he sat up in bed, and the babe was brought, and the father prayed, "If this child should.live to become queen of England, may she rule in the fear of God!” Having ended his prayer, he said. “Take the child away.” But all who know the history of England for the last fifty years know that the prayer for that infant more than seventy years ago has been answered, nnd with what emphasis and affection millions of the queen's subjects have this day in chapels and cathedrals, on land and sea. supplicated, "God save the avseal’ 1 Prayer dies net only across

continents, but across centuries. If prayer had only feet, it might run here and there and do wonders. But it has wings, and they are as radiant of plume and as swift to rise or swoop or dart or circle as the cherubim’s wings which swept through Ezekiel's vision. But, oh, my friends, the prayer must have the hand under the wing, or it may amount to nothing. The mother’s hand or the father’s hand must write to the wayward boy as soon as you can hear how to address him. Christian souls must contribute to the evangelism of that far-off land for which they have been praying. Stop singing, “Fly abroad, tlnW mighty gospel,” unless yon are willingXo give something of your own means to make it fly. Have you been praying for the salvation of a young man’s soul ? That is right, but also extend the hand of invitation to come to a religious meeting. It always excites our sympathy to see a man with his hand in a sling. We ask him: “What is the matter? Hope it is not a felon,” or, “Have your fingers been pushed?” But nine out of ten of all Christians are going their lifelong with their in a sling. They have been hurt by indifference or wrong ideas of what is best, or it is injured of conventionalities, and they never put forth that hand to lift or help or rescue any one. They pray, and their prayer has wings, but there is no hand under the wings. From the very structure of the hand we might make up our mind as to some of the things it was made for—to hold fast, to lift, to push, to pull, to help and to rescue, and endowed with two hands we might take the broad hint that for others as well as for ourselves we were to hold fast, to lift, to push, to pull, to help, to rescue. Wondrous hand! You know something of the “Bridgewater Treatises.” When Rev. Francis Henry Bridgewater, in his will, left $40,000 for essays on “The Power, Wisdom and Goodness of God as Manifested in the Creation,” and Davies Gilbert, the president of the Royal Society, chose eight persons to write eight books, Sir Charles Bell, the scientist, chose as the“subject of his great book, “The Hand, Its Mechanism and Vital Endowments as Evincing Design.” Oh, the hand! Its machinery beginning at the shoulder, and working through shafts of bone, upper arm and forearm down to the eight bones of the wrist, and the five hone* nf the naJm. iml the fourteen bones of the fingers and thumb, and composed of a labyrinth of muscle and nerve and artery and flesh, which no one but Almighty God could have planned or executed. But how suggestive when it reached down to us from under the wings of the cherubim! “The liksness of the hands of a man was under the wings." Another Application. This idea is combined in Christ. When he rose from Mount Olivet, he took wing. All up and down his life you see the uplifting divinity. It glowed in his forehead. It flashed in his eye. Its cadences were heard in his voice. But he was aiso very' human. It was the hand under the wing “that touched the woes of the world and took hold of the sympathies of the centuries. Watch his hand before it was spiked. There was a dead girl in a governor's house, and Christ comes into the room and takes her pale, cold hands in hiS warm grasp, and she opens her eyes on the weeping household and says’ “Father, what are you crying about?Mother, what are you crying about?” The book says, “He took her by the hand, and the maid rose.” A follower, angered at an insult offered Christ, drew the sword from sheath and struck at n the sharp edge, aiming, I think, at his forehead. But the weapon glanced aside and took off the right ear at its roots. Christ with his hand reconstructed thaj* wonderful organ of sound, that whispering gallery of the soul, that collector of vibrations, that arched way to the auditorynerve, that tunnel without which all the musical instruments of earth would be of no avail. The book says, “He touched his ear and healed him.” Meeting a full grown man who had never seen a sunrise or a sunset, or a flower, or the face of his own father or mother, Christ moistens the dust from his own tongue and stirs the dust into an eye salve, and with his own hands applies the strange medicament, and suddenly all the colors of earth and sky rush in upon the newly created optic nerve, and the instantaneous noon drove out the long night. A Hand Under the Wing. While Thomas Chalmers occupied the chair of moral philosophy in St. Andrew’s University he had at the same time a Sabbath school class of poor boys down in the slums of Edinburgh. While Lord Fitzgerald was traveling in Canada he saw a poor Indian squaw carrying a crushing load, and he took the burden on his own shoulders. That was Christlike. That was “a hand under the wing.” The highest type of religion says little about itself, but is busy for God and in helping to the heavenly shore die crew and passengers of this shipwrecked planet. Such people are busy now up the dark lanes of this city, and all through the mountain glens, and down in the quarries where the sunlight has never visited, and amid the rigging helping to take in another reef before the Caribbean whirlwind. A friend was telling me of an exquisite thing about Seattle, then of Washington territory, now of Washington State. The people of Seattle had raised a generous sum of money for the Johnstown sufferers from the flood. A few days after Seattle was destroyed by fire. I saw it while the whole city was living in tents. In a public meeting some one proposed that the money raised for Johnstown be used for the relief of their own city, and the cry wasl No! No! No! Send the money to Johnstown, and by acclamation the money was so sent. Nothing more beautiful or sublime than that. Under the wing of fire that smote Seattle the sympathetic hand, the helping hand, the mighty hand of Christian relief for people thousands of miles away. Why, there are a hundred thousand men and women whose one business is to help others. Helping hands, inspiring hands, lifting hands, emancipating hajids, saving hands. Sure enough, those people had wings of faith, andyrings of prayer, and wings of consolation", but “the likeness of the hands of a man Mas under the wings.” There was in that which the robust boatman silid when three were in a boat off the coast in a sudden storm that threatened to sink the boat, and one suggested that they all kneel down in the boat to pray, and the robust man took bold of the oar and began to pull, saying, "Let you, the strong, stout fellow, lay hold the other oar, and let the weak one who cannot pull give himself up to prayer” Pray, by all means, but at the same time pull with all your might for the world’s rescue. An arctie traveler hosting beaver while the ice was break* lag up, and supposing that there was no hpfiWJ Ml Trithtaloo miles, heard the

ice crackle, and, 10, a lost man, insane * with hunger and cold, was wading in the ice water. The explorer took the man into his canoe and made for land, and the people gathered on the shore. All the islanders had been looking for the lost man, and finding him, according to prearrangement, all the bells rang and all the guns fired. Oh, you can make a gladder time among the towers and hilltops of heaven if you fetch home a wanderer. A Word for the Cities. In our time it is the habit to denounce the cities and to speak of them as the perdition of all wickedness. Is it not time, for some one to tell the other side of tho story and to say that the city is the heaven of practical helpfulness? Look at the embowered and fountained parks, where the invalids may come and be refreshed; the Bowery mission, through which annually over 100,000 come to get bread for this life and bread for the life to come, all tho pillows of that institution under the blessing of him who had not where to lay his bead; the free schools, where the most impoverished are educated; the hospitals for broken bones; the homes for the restoration of intellects astray; the orphan bouse, father and mother to all who come under its benediction; the midnight missions, which pour midnoon upon the darkened; the Prison Reform Association; the houses of mercy; the infirmaries; the sheltering arms; the aid societies; the industrial schools; the Sailors’ Snug harbor; the foundling asylums; the free dispensaries, where greatest scientific skill feels the pulse of wan pauper; the ambulance, the startling stroke of its bell clearing the way to the place of casualty, and good souls like the mother who came to the Howard mission, with its crowd of friendless boys picked up from the streets, and saying: "If you have a crippled boy, give him to me. My dear boy died with the spinal complaint.” And such a one she found and took him home and nursed him till he was well. It would take a sermon three weeks long to 'do justice to the mighty things which our cities are doing for the unfortunate and the lost. Do not - say that Christianity in our cities is all show and talk and genuflexion and noise. You have been so long looking at the hand of cruelty, and the hand of theft, and the hand of fraud, and the hand of outrage that you have not sufficiently annrecin tJxo—h-arnl u£ helti stretched forth from the doors and windows of churches and from merciful institutions, the Christlike hand, the cherubic hand, “the hand under the wings.” Bound for the Palace. There is also in my subject the suggestion of rewarded work for God and righteousness. When the wing went, the hand went. When the wing ascended, the hand ascended, and for every useful and Christian hand there will be elevation celestial and eternal. Expect no human gratitude, for it will not come. That was a wise thing Fenelon wrote to his friend: “I am very glad, my dear, good fellow, that you are pleased with one of my letters which has been shown you. You are right in saying and believing that I ask little of men in general. I try to do much for them and to expect nothing in return. I find a decided advantage in these terms. On these terms I defy them to disappoint me.” But, my hearers, the day cometh when your work, which perhaps no one has noticed or rewarded or honored, will rise to heavenly recognition. While I have been telling you that the hand was under the wing of the cherubim I want you to realize that the wing was over the hand. Perhaps reward may not come to you right away. Washington lost more battles than he won, but he triumphed at the last. Walter Scott in boyhood was called the “Greek Blockhead,” but what height of renown did he not afterward tread? And I promise you victory furtheu on and higher up, if not in this world, then in the next. Oh, the heavenly day when your lifted hand shall be gloved with what honors, its fingers enringed with what jewels, its wrist clasped with what splendors! Come up and take it, you Christian Woman who served at the washtiA. Come up and take it, you Chris, tian shoemaker who pounded the shoo last. Come up and take it, you proses-. sional nurse whose compensation nevei; fully paid for broken nights and thu whims and struggles of delirious sicM rooms. Come up and take it, you firemen; besweated, far down amid the greasy machinery of ocean steamers, and ye conductors and engineers on railroads that knew no Sunday and whose ringing bells and loud whistle never warned off you® own anxieties. Come up and take it, you mothers, who rocked and lullabied the family brood until they took wing for other nests and never appreciated what you had done and ' suffered for them. Your hand was well favored when you were young, and it was a beautiful hand, so well rounded, so graceful that many admired and eulogized it. but hard'work calloused it and twisted it, and self-sacrificing toil for others paled it, and many household griefs thinned it, and the ring which went on only with a push at the marriage altar is too large and falls off, and again and again you have lost it. Poor hand! Wearyhand! Wornout hand! But God will reconstruct it, reanimate it, readorn it, and all heaven will know the story of that hand. What fallen ones it lifted up! What tears it wiped away! What wounds it bandaged! What lighthouses it kindled! What storm tossed ships it brought into the pearl beached harbor.! Oh. I am so glad that in the vision of my text Ezekiel saw the wing above the hand. Roll ou that everlasting Test “for all tht> toiling and misunderstood and suffering and weary children of God, and know right well that to join your hand, at last emancipated from the struggle, will be the soft hand, the gentle hand, the triumphant hand of him wlyo wipeth away all tears from all faces. That will be the palace of the King of which the poet sang in Scotch dialect: “It's a bonnie, bounie war! that we're livin’ in the noo, Au’ sunny is the lan’ we aften traivel thro’, ' 4 But in vain we look for something to which oor hearts can cling. For its beauty is as naething to the palace o’ the King. "We see frien’s await us ower yonder at his gate. Then let us a’ be ready, for, ye ken, it’s gettin’ late. Let oor lamps be brichtly burnin’; let's raise oor voice an’ sing, Soon we’ll meet, to part nae mair, i’ the palace o’ the King” . , A man feels drowsy after a hearty dinner because a large part of the blood in the system goes to the stomach to aid in digestion and leaves the brain poorly supplied. There is no grievance that is a fit objeot for redrey by. mob law.-Lincoln.