Decatur Democrat, Volume 39, Number 27, Decatur, Adams County, 20 September 1895 — Page 7

Jfo, ImM

v f#W, tußf 5/ M h * 4 Jb V xmi r‘W n WM v\* IF I JI CHAPTER XVI .—(Continued.) Mr». Ruthven waa successful along the whole line she had marked out for herself. If she was a little sore respecting the feelings Marsden so frankly avowed toward Miss L’Estrange shu had the consolation of believing that she was inflicting the cruelest disappointment on that 'detested rival. Then, she had the man she loved so utterly at her mercy; ami this, which would have been pain and humiliation to a woman of real heart and delicacy, gratified her crude love of power, while the certainty of accomplishing the marriage on which she had set her soul, of falsifying Shirley’s spiteful prophecies of defeat, filled her with exultation. There was a very ugly reverse to the medal, but, for the moment, she was able to put it aside, if not to forget it. With her wealth, and Marsden’s pos’tion and popularity, the world was at her feet. As to his craze about Nora L’Estrange, that would pass over. He would find that an experienced woman of the- world must be a more suitable wife for him than a mere schoolgirl like Nora. For several days after she had come to a distinct understanding with Marsden, Mrs. Ruthven denied herself to every one —even to her faithful Shirley, who was by no means pleased with the aspect of things. He had not been accustomed to be thus debarred admittance, and he scented mischief. Though the day was gone when he hoped to rekindle Mrs. Ruthven’s passing caprice for himself, he objected very strongly to her marrying Marsden, who had unconsciously wounded his amour propre, and insulted him by bis oppressive superiority. When, at last, Mrs. Ruthven, was nt home to him, he was in a very bad temper, indeed, which was not Improved by the careless triumph of her manner. “I thought you were going to cut me completely,” he said, when they had exchanged greetings. “Why, it is more than a week since I was admitted!” “You have no right to complain; I have not seen any one.” “You have not been unwell, I hope?” “No; I have felt remarkably well; but I have been busy with these tiresome papers;” and she waved her-left hand toward them- Shirley started, for on her finger sparkled the double-heart device, of rubies and diamonds, he had seen on Nora’s. “I can scarcely believe my eyes!” he exclaimed. “Am Ito conclude that Marsden has transferred his alliance, with the betrothal ring, from Miss L’Estrange to you?” “He has,” she returned, twirling the ring round and round, and smiling softly. “And how—how did Marsden contrive to break off with Miss L’Estrange?” “That I do not know; but he has done so, and as I have always found you capable of keeping silence when necessary, I do not mind telling you, that Mr. Marsden has made some rather curious discoveries which, in short, render his marriage with Miss L’Estrange impossible.” “Discoveries, eh?” in a peculiar tone; “and will you not trust me completely ?” “No, my good friend; I—in short, Ido not exactly know myself.” “It is all very mysterious, and deucedly hard for Miss L’Estrange.” “I don’t suppose she is in a very enviable state of mind,” returned Mrs. Ruthven, with an air of quiet enjoyment. Shirley looked at her curiously. “And have you given up all hopes of tracing your rubies?” he awked. „ “Yes,” she said, sharply; "what suggested them to you?” “I don’t knpw; perhaps an idea that Marsden has not hitherto brought you luck.” “He will replace my rubies by the Marsden diamonds. Now, Captain Shirley, you said you thought I was going to cut you completely; you are mistaken; I am not going to cut you, but I am going to drop you as an intimate friend. Nir. Marsden, for some reason or other, would not be pleased, I know, if I continued on the same terms with you, and he is naturally my first considers have always been friendlyumd useful, and I may add, prudent; for you have wisely agreed with me in letting by-gones be by-gones. But before entering into a new phase of my existence, I should like to look through a few acknowledgments of yours, which you have given me from time to time,” and she drew from a Russian leather dispatch box several slips of paper neatly fastened together. “Mrs. Ruthven!” cried Shirley, coloring “if you mean that I am to clear up with you, previous to your entering on your ‘new phase,’ you intend to reward my prudence by ruining me.” She looked at him a moment in amused silence. “I am not quite so hard a creditor, Shirley; partly, perhaps, because I do not forget by-gones, quite. No; I inaugurate this new phase of my existence by returning you all these promissory notes. I wish to hear no more of them—let us part friends. I wish you good luck in whatever way you would best like it.” Shirley's dark face changed. “You are kind, and—and. most liberal,” he said. “I wish our old—let me say friendship—was not to be ended.” He took the papers she held out, and twisting tltem up, thrust them into his breast pocket. “I shall never meet your match again; you have shown me what can be and done by a woman, blessed as you are with a hegvy purse and a potent will.” ¥}“AHd all’s well that ends well,” returned Mrs. Ruthven. She gave him her hand with a slight Inclination of the head, and he felt himself dismissed. « *,»*♦•* The days flew fast, and that fixed for Winton’s departure had dawned. Nora dared not hope that she still held the same place in his regard. Os course, she thought, her sudden change, her apparent readiness first to accept Marsden and then to break with him, had lowered her in the estimation of so high-minded a man as Mark Winston. He had called as ho promised, but both Mrs. L’Estrange and her step-daughter were out. “He will not go without bidding us good-by," said the former more thou once,

us she began to understand matters without questioning, and grew anxious that the two she heartily loved should not spoil each other’s lives for a punctilio. “I must write and ask him to luncheon or dinner.” "No, no, dear Helen! Promise me, promise me faithfully you will not," implored Nora, with such a distressed expression of countenance that Mrs. L’Estrange promised. This last day was bright and crisp, there had been a light fall of snow and the grass in the park was prettily powdered. No exterior brightness, however, could cheer Nora. She kept a brave face, but her heart felt as if it must break; for the moment life was to her like one of those wretched dreams, where the dreamer, all burning to attain some joy almost within touch, is kept back by hnpapable barriers, vague obstacles, gossamer to the eye, impregnable to the starving spirit. It was, she told herself, useless, unmaidenly, to grieve so about a man who was evidently resolved not to renew his proposal to her. She had begged to..joiu Bea and her governesss in their early walk; anything was better than sitting still. She talked kindly and cheerfully in German to the little fraulein about her home and her people, every now and then falling into silence and bitter thought, and then with the restlessness of pain, she wanted to go home and read, a tough book of some kind would draw her out of herself. She complained of fatigut* and - they returned to the house. Nora went listlessly upstairs, opened the drawing-room door and stopped for a moment. Helen was speaking to some one, another step, and she saw her step-' mother seated on a low chair looking up to Mr. Winton, who stood on the hearthrug leaning his shoulder against the chim-ney-place. She instinctively turned her face from the light, and assuming by an effort an air of composure, advanced to shake hands with him—a charming figure, as the reflection of the fire played on her dark-green, close-fitting cloth coat, edged with sable, and a pretty cap of the same fur crowning her golden brown curls. In spite of her will and firmly exerted selfcontrol, a vivid blush rose to her cheeks, which left color enough even when it had partially faded. “Where is Bea?” asked Mrs. L’Estrange when the others had bid each other good-day. “Gone to take off her things.” “I must bring her to see you," said Mrs. L’Estrange, with rather a significant look to Winton. “He is going then,” thought Nora, too much taken up with the idea to heed her step-mother leaving the room. “I thought you were tb sail to-day?” she said, taking off her cap and parting the fringe on her brow; the room was quite too warm, after the cold air, and she drew a chair forward, still keeping her back to the windows. “I have postponed my departure for a week or two,” returned Winton; and there was an awkward pause, while Nora, with unsteady fiygers, drew off her gloves and rubbed her hands gently together. “You seem tired of your holiday?” “No,” said Winton, taking a step nearer to her, and looking straight into her eyes. “I must tell you the truth, even though it may seem bad taste to do so, at least so soon. lam not tired of my holiday, but I wanted to throw myself into engrossing work, to deaden the pain of disappointed hope—hope that probably I had no right to entertain, yet which I could not resist!”. Nora was silent. “I may seem a tiresome, persevering blockhead—but, once more, Nora, I offer you my future life! And I promise, with all my soul,' to' be your ’ truest friend, as well as your true lover! Shall I go, or stay?” And Nora —the tears welling over and hanging on her lashes —said softly, but most distinctly: “Stay!” Then she lost hold on herself and burst into a fit of weeping. “Good heavens, Nora!” cried Winton, dismayed, "you do not accept me against your will?” •*-’ "No, no,” she returned, recovering herself a little, "but I have been so miserable and so foolish.” “Tell me,” said Winton, bending gne knee on a footstool beside her, and taking her hand gently in his, "why did you accept Marsden?” "Because I thought he loved me very much; and ” with a quick glance from her sweet wet eyes, and a frank pressure of the hand, “that no one else did.” “How was. that?” cried Winton, his heart beating’fast. “You must have felt hoW soon you grew dear to me!—dearer than anything else on earth or in heaven, either.” “Why did you not tell me so before?” asked Nora, smiling, though her lips still trembled. “Because, my love, my life, I was afraid! Do you remember, one day, you bid me good-by at the door, at Brookdale, and I dared to hold your hand closer and longer than I ought? The words, ‘I love you,’ were on my lips at that moment, but it was no time or place to speak them; and ever after, in some nameless way, you put me from you, and virtually told me you would have nothing to do with me.” “Yes, I remember it, and I was told that —that you had been engaged to Helen, and were now hoping to marry her!” “Who told you this? Marsden?” he askedtjternjy, catching her other hand and holding both tight. “Yes,” faltered Nora. “Then he Is an infernal liar! Why did you believe him?” "Why should I doubt him ?" ; “Then you should not have doubted me.” “You would not have me so conceited as to fancy a man must be—very, very fond of me—when he never told me so?” “Vyhile I thought every one must see I was making a fool of myself.” “Oh, if you wish to keep up a character for wisdom ” “I don’t suppose you believe much in my wisdom! But, Nora, will you really come with me to India?—to a wild, remote station ?” “I am not wise enough to refuse! But I can’t start next week!” “I should think not. You will believe me, when I tell you, I never loved any woman but yourself, and give me a place in your heart, in return?” “I will, Mark,” said Nora, gravely,

steadily, with a tender solemnity. So when Mrs. L’Estrange was called back it was all settled; a very happy party met at dinner that evening—at which repast Miss Beatrice, to her great delight, was allowed to be present, and did good service by promoting general and very discursive conversation. The society papers soon added to their usual paragraphs mysterious hints as to broken engagements, and the false information disseminated by their contemporaries respecting the approaching nuptials of a certain popular member of society, whose domains lay not a hundred miles from a well-known cathedral town in the Midlands, etc. Nora L’Estrange and Winton were too much strangers and pilgrims in the world of London to share the attention bestowed on Mrs. Ruthven and Marsden. The noise made by the extraordinary theft of her jewels had given the pretty widow a certain standing in the estimation of society, and her marriage with so wellknown a man us Marsden made her position secure. Little remains to tell of this ill-bal-anced tale, where, though virtue is fairly rewarded, vice Is by no means chastised as it ought to be. Justice, complete justice, is, however, rarely visible to the naked eye; let us believe there is a secret award which brings unerring punishment to the evil-doer, even though he “flourishes ns a green bay tree” in the eyes of his neighbors/ A couple of years after what Nora considered her great deliverance, Mrs. L’Estrange, In her tranquil home at Brookdale, which it was arranged was to be her residence so long as Mr. and Mrs. Winton remained in India, wrote as follows, in one of her monthly letters to her step-daugh-ter: “You will, I am sure, be sorry to hear that Clifford Marsden had a bad fall, out hunting, last week. They tell me he rides most recklessly; indeed, he is much changed since his marriage. Mrs. Marsden, I must say, makes a capital lady of the manor,, and is decidedly popular, though somewhat exacting; Marsden is either silent ana moody, or in fierce high spirits. He is verV thin, and not nearly so handsome as he was. There is a curious, glazed, staring look in his eyes, that distresses me, for I always liked him; and he always shows the utmost friendliness to Bea and to myself. I never heard that he drinks too much, but it is whispered that he eats opium. He is often away, and when at home seems to take no interest in anything. Madame is master and mistress, and people appear to consider her rather neglected by her husband. Mrs. Marsden shows me all proper civility, but I feel she docs not like me; and I dare not encourage Clifford to come here as often as he would like. It is reported that Mrs. Marsden is trying to bribe Colonel Marsden, the next heir who is a bachelor, and rather out at elbows, to join her husband in breaking the entail, and then the estate is to be settled on her. This may be mere gossip; I cannot help feeling grieved for Clifford; he seems so broken and hopeless. “The mail has not come in yet, so I shall send this off. I cannot tell you what pleasure your descriptions of your delightful life up-country give me, and Bea, too, looks eagerly for your letters. My kind love to Mark, who, I am sure, is a pattern husband. What a narrow escape you had of losing each other!” (The end.) OF RATS

It was a hard-earned victory that Walter Carter won over an army of rate in Oamden, says the Baltimore American. It was a case of fight or perish, and Carter fought. When the fierce battle was finished he counted the heaps of fallen enemies. There were 102 of them. Carter is a member of the firm of Roberts & Carter, provision dealers, on Second street, above Pearl. For a long time the firm suffered severely from the depredation of rats, which seemed to grow in boldness as they increased in numbers. They were Into everything, climbing all over the store and gnawing into boxes, barrels and bins to such an extent that the owners were appalled. It was the junior partner’s habit to open the store in the morning, and he Invariably heard a great scampering ovei- the place as he entered by the dim light He concluded at last to have it out with the little beasts, and began an investigation to locate their rendezvous. This he had no difficulty in finding. As he opened the door of a small brick smoke-house in the rear of the store, now little used, he saw fully a dozen rats run into holes in th§ floor and walls. They quickly recovered from their fright, however, and emerged to glare viciously at him out of their wicked little black eyes. Carter walk" ed out, got a short, thick club and a lantern, and re-entered the smokehouse. This time he closed the door behind hilm. The dim light of the lantern served to half daze the rats, and Carter had no difficulty in killing three big fellows. As they gave vent to dying squeaks, however, scores of other rate emerged from seemingly nowhere, surrounding the young man with the club on all sides, To show an instant’s fear meant probable death for the invader of the rats’ domain. It must be a fight to a finish. Carter’s retreat was cut off. and he started in to fight. The rate leaped at his hands and face, and crawled over his feet, all the while keeping up a horrible din of squealing that nerved Carter to his task. One after another of the soft, ugly things struck him as he stood dealing blows right and left, and felling a rat at almost every blow. Still the numbers multiplied, and the courageous figliter began to fear that he would have to fall before the horrid foe. He had been bitten several times on the hand, but had managed to keep the fangs of the vicious beasts from his head and face. Thus the fight kept on for fully fifteen minutes, and Carter was growing weak from the violent exertion. At last, however, he felt that the rat? were gradually thinning out, and he had less trouble in keeping them off him. This gave him fresh courage, and at length he realized that he hud won. No more rats appeared. Almost overcome by the exertionsand excitement, Carter staggered out into the open air and gathered hlmelf together. In a few minutes he recovered and, piling up the dead, found that he had killed 102.

A. DAY WITH STEPHEN REV. DR. TALMAGE PRESENTS FIVE LIVING PICTURES. > Stephen Gazing Into Heaven—Stephen Looking at Christ—Stephen Stoned— Stephen in Hie Vying Prayer— Stephen Asleep. An Inspiring Theme. In his sermon for Sunday Rev. Dr. Talmage chose a theme as picturesque as it is spiritually inspiring. He groups his discourse into “Five Pictures.” The text selected was, "Behold, I see the heavens opened.’’—Acts vii., 56-60. Stephen had been preaching a rousing sermon, end the people could not stand it. They resolved to do as men sometimes would like to do in this day, if they dared, with some plain preacher of righteousness —kill him. The only way to silence this man was to knock the breath out of him. Ro they rushed Stephen out of the gates of the city, and with curse and whoop and bellow they brought him to the cliff, as was the custom when they wanted to take away life by stoning. Having brought him to the edge of the cliff, they pushed him off. After ho had fallen they came and looked down, and seeing that he was not yet dead they began to drop stones upon him, stone after stone. Amid this horrible rain of missiles Stephen clambers up on his knees and folds his hands, while the blood drips from his temples, and then, looking up. he makes two prayers, one for himself and one for his murderers. “Lord Jesus, receive my spirit,” that was for himself. “Lord, lay not this sin to their charge,” that was for his murderers. Then, from pain and loss of blood, he swooned away and fell asleep. I want to show you to-day five pictures —Stephen gazing into heaven, Stephen looking at Christ, Stephen stoned, Stephen in his dying prayer, Stephen asleep?Stephen Looking Into Heaven. First look at Stephen gazing into heaven. Before you take a leap you want to know where you are going to land. Before you climb a ladder you want to know to what point the ladder reaches. And it was right that Stephen, within a few moments of heaven, should be gazing into it. We would all do well to be found in the same posture. There is enough in heaven to keep us gazing. A man of large wealth may have statuary in the hall, and paintings in the sitting room, and works of art in all parts of the house, but he has the chief pictures in the art gallery, and there hour after hour you walk with catalogue and glass and ever increasing admiration. Well, heaven is the gallery where God has gathered the chief treasures of his realm. The whole universe is his palace. In this lower room where we stop there are many adornments, tessellated floor of amethyst, and on the winding cloud stairs are stretched out canvases on which commingle azure and purple and saffron and gold. But heaven is the gallery in which the chief glories are gathered. There are the brightest robes. There are the richest crowns. There are the highest exhilarations. St. John says of it, “The kings of the earth shall bring their honor and glory into it.” And I see the procession forming, and in the line conie all empires, and the stars spring up into an arch for„the hosts to march under. They keep step to the sound of earthquake and the pitch of avalanche from the mountains, and the flag they bear is the flame of a consuming world, and all heaven turns 'out with harps and trumpets and myriad voiced acclamation of angelic dominions to welcome them in, and so the kings of the earth bring their honor and glory into it. Do you wonder that good people often stand, like Stephen, looking into heaven? We have many friends there. There is not a man here so isolated in life but there is some one in heaven with whom he once shook’ hands.’ As a man gets older, the number of his celestial ac-, quaintances very rapidly multiplies. WF have not had one glimpse of them since the night we kissed them good-by and they went away, but still we stand gazing at heaven. As when some of our friends go across the sea we stand on the dock or on the steam tug and watch them, and after awhile the hulk of the vessel disappears, and then there is only’ a patch of sail on the sky. and soon that is gone, and they are all out of sight, and yet we stand looking in the same direction, so when our friends go away from us into the future world we keep looking down through the Narrows and gazing and gazing as though we expected that they would come out and stand on some cloud and give us one glimpse of their blissful and transfigured faces. While you long to join their companionship, and the years and the days go with such tedium that they break your heart, and the vipers of pain and sorrowand bereavement keep gnawing at your vitals, you will stand, like Stephen, gazing into heaven. You wonder if they have changed since you saw them last. You wonder if they would recognize your face now. so changed has it been with trouble. You wonder if, amid the myriad delights they have, they care as much.for you as they used to when they gave you a helping hand and put their shoulders under your burdens. You wonder if they look any older, and sometimes in the evening tide, when the house is all quiet, you wonder if you should call them by their first name if they would not answer, and perhaps sometimes you do make the-experiment, and when no one but God and yourself are there you distinctly call their names and listen and sit gazing into heaven. Looking: Upon Christ. Pass on now and see Stephen "looking upon Christ. My text says he saw the Son of man at the right hand of God. Just how Christ looked in this world, just how he looks in heaven, we cannot say. The painters of the different ages have tried to imagine the features of Christ tmd put them upon canvas, but we will have to wait until with our own eyes we see him and with our own ears wo can hear him. And yet there is away of seeing him and hearing him now;- I have to tell you that unless you see and hear Christ on earth, you will never see and hqar him in heaven. Look! There he is! Behold the Lamb of God! Can yon not see him ? I'heri j>ray to God to take the scales off your eyes. Look that way—try to look that way. His voice comes down to you this day—ponies down to the blindesfir to the deafest soul, saying. “Look unto me, a!) ye ends of the earth and be ye saved, for I am God, and there is none else.’.’ Proclamation of universal emancipation for all slaves. Tell me, ye who know most of the world's history, what other king ever asked the abandoned, and the forlorn, and the wretched, and the outcast to come and sit beside him. Oh, wonderful invitation!. You can take it to-day and stand at the head

of the darkest alley in all this city, and I say: “Come! Clothes for your rags, salve for your sores, a throne for your eternal reigning.” A Christ that talks like that and acts like that and pardons like that—do you wonder that Stephen stood looking at him? I hope to spend eternity doing the same thing. I must see him; I must look upon that face once clouded with my sin, but now radiant with my pardon. I want to touch that hand that knocked off my shackles. I want to hear the voice that pronounced my deliverance. Behold him, little children, for if you live to three score years and ten you will see none so fair. Behold him, ye aged ones, for he only can shine through the dimness of your failing eyesight. Behold him, earth. Behold him, heaven. What a moment when all the nations of the saved shall gather around Christ, all faces that way, all thrones that way, gazing on Jesus! His worth if all the nations knew Sure the whole earth would love him, too. Stoned. I pass on now and look at Stephen stoned. The world has always wanted to get rid of good men. Their very life is an assault upon wickedness. Out with Stephen through the gates of the city. Down with him over the precipices. Let every man come up and drop a stone upon his head. But these men did not so much kill Stephen as they killed themselves. Every stone rebounded upon them. While these murderers are transfixed by the scorn of all good men Stephen lives in the admiration of all Christendom. Stephen stoned, but Stephen alive. So all good men must be pelted. “All who will live godly in Christ Jesus must suffer persecution.” It is no eulogy of a man to say that everybody likes him. Show me any one who is doing all his duty to state or church, and I will show you scores of men who utterly abhor him. If all men speak well of you, it is because you are either a laggard or a dolt. If a steamer- makes rapid progress through the waves, the water will boil and foam all around it. Brave soldiers of Jesus Christ will hear the carbines click. When I see a man with a voice and money and influence all on the right side, and some caricature him, and some sneer at him, and some denounce him, and men who pretend to be actuated by right motives conspire to cripple him, to cast him out, to destroy him, I say, “Stephen stoned.” When I see a man in some great moral or religious reform battle against grogshops, exposing wickedness in high places, by active means trying to purify the church and better the world’s estate, and I find that the newspapers anthematize him, and men, even good men, oppose him and denounce him, because, though he does good, he does not do it in their way, I say “Stephen stoned.” But you notice, my friends, that while they assaulted Stephen they did not succeed really in killing him. You may assault a good man, but you cannot kill him. On the day of his death, Stephen spoke before a few people in the sanhedrin; this Sabbath morning he addresses all Christendom. Paul the apostlq stood on Mars hill addressing a handful of philosophers who knew not so much about science as a modern schoolgirl. To-day he talks to all the millions of Christendom about the wonders of justification and .-the glories of resurrection. John Wesley was howled down by the mob to whom he preached, and they threw bricks at him, and they denounced him, and they jostled him, and they spat upon him, and yet to-day, in all lands, he .is admitted to be the great father of Methodism., Booth’s bullet vacated the Presidential chair, but from that spot of coagulated blood on the floor in the box of Ford’s Theater there sprang up the new life of a nation. Stephen stoned, but Stephen alive. A Dying Prayer. Pass on now and see Stephen in his dying prayer. His first thought was not how the stones hurt his head nor what would became of his body. His first thought was about his spirit. "Lord Jesus, receive my The murderer standing on the trapdoor, the black cap being drawn over his head before the execution, may grimace about the future, but ybu and I have no shame in confessing some anxiety about where we are going to come out. You are not all body. There is within you a soul. I see it gleam from your eyes to-day, and I see, it irradiating your countenance. Sometimes lam abashed before an audience, not because I come under your physical eyesight, but because I realize the truth that I stand before so many immortal spirits. The probability is that your body will at last find a sepulcher in some of the-cemeteries that surround this city. There is no doubt but that your obsequies will be decent and respectful, and you will be able to pillow your head tinder the maple, or the Norway spruce, or the cypress, or the blossoming fir, but this spirit about which Stephen prayed, what direction will that take? What guide will escort it? What gate will open to receive it? What cloud will be cleft for its pathway? After it has got beyond the light of our sun will there be torches lighted for it the rest of the way? Will the soul have to. travel through long deserts before it reaches the good land? If we should lose our pathway, will there be a castle at whose gate we may ask the way to the city? Oli, this mysterious spirit within us! It has two wings, but it is in a cage now. It is locked fast to keep it, but let the door of this cage open the least, and that soul is off. Eagle’s wings could not catth it. The lightnings are not swift enough to come up with it. When the soul leaves the body, it takes fifty worlds at a bound. And have I no anxiety about it? Have you no anxiety about it? I do not care what you do with my body when my soul is gone or whether you believe in cremation or inhumation. 1 shall sleep just as well in a wrapping, of sackcloth as in satin lined with eagle's down. But my soul—before I close this discourse I will find out where it will land. Thank God for the intimation of my text, that when we die Jesus takes us That an? swers all questions for me. What though there were massive'bars between here and the City iff Light, Jesus could remove them. What though there were great Saharas of darkness, Jesus could illume, them. What though I get weary on the way", Christ could lift me on his omnipotent shoulder. What though there wore chasms to cross, his hand could transport me. Then .let Stephen’s prayer be my dying litany, “LoriJ Jesus, receive my spirit.” It may be in that hour we will be too feeble to say a long prayer. It may be in that hour we will not be able to say the Lord's Prayer, for it has seven petitions.* Perhaps we may be too feeble even to say the infant prayer our mothers taught us, which John Quincy Adams, 70 years of age, said every night when he put his head upon his pillow: Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep.

We may be too feeble to employ ettSer of those familiar forms, but this prayer of Stephen is so short, is so concise, Is so earnest, is so comprehensive, we surely will be able to say that. “Lord Jesus, receive my spirit.” Oh, if that prayer is answered, how sweet it will be to die! This world is clever enough to ns. Perhaps it has treated us a great deal better than we deserved to be treated, but if on the dying pillow there shall break the light of that better world we shall have no more regret than about leaving a small, dark, damp house for one large, beautiful and capacious. That dying minister in Philadelphia some years ago beautifully depicted it when in the last moment he threw up his hands and cried out: “I move into the light!” Asleep. Pass on now, and I will show you ons more picture, and that is Stephen asleep. With a pathos and simplicity peculiar to the Scriptures, the text says of Stephen: “He fell asleep.” *‘Oh,” you say, a place that was to sleep! A hard rock under him, stones falling down upon him, the blood streaming, the mob howling. What a place it was to sleep!" And yet my text takes that symbol of slumber to describe his departure, so sweet was it, so contented was it, so peaceful was it, Stephen had lived a very laborious life. His chief work had been to care for the poor. How many loaves of bread he had distributed, how many bare feet he had sandaled, how many cots of sickness and distress he had blessed with ministries of kindness and love, I do not know. Yet from the way he lived, and the way he preached, and the way he died, I know he „ was a laborious Christian. But that is all over now. He has pressed the cup to the last fainting lip. He has taken the last insult from his enemies. The last stone to whose crushing weight he is susceptible has been hurled. Stephen is dead I The disciples come! They take him up! They wash away the blood from the wounds. They straighten out the bruised limbs. They brush back the tangled hair from the brow, and then they pass around to look upon the calm countenance of him who had lived for the poor and died for the truth. Stephen asleep! I have seen the sea driven with the hurricane until the tangled foam caught in the rigging, and wave rising above wave seemed as if about to storm the heavens, and then I have seen the tempest drop’, and the waves crouch and everything become smooth and burnished as though a camping place for the glories of heaven. So I have seen a man, whose life has been tossed and driven, coming down at last to an infinite calm, in which there was a hush of heaven’s lullaby. Stephen asleep! I saw such a one. He fought all his days against poverty and against abuse. They traduced his name. They rattled at the doorknob while he was dying with duns for debts he could not pay; yet the peace of God brooded over his pillow and while the world faded, heaven dawned and the deepening twilight of earth's night was only the opening twilight of heaven’s morn. Not a sigh. Not a tear. Not a struggle. Hush! Stephen asleep. I have not the faculty as many have to tell the weather. I can never tell by the setting sun whether there will be a drought or not. I cannot tell by the blowing of the wind whether it will be fair weather or foul on the morrow. But 'I can prophesy, and I will prophesy, what weather it will be when you, the Christian, come to die. You may have it very rough now. It may be this week one annoyance, the next another annoyance. It may be this year one bereavement, the next another bereavement. But at the last Christ will come in and darkness will go out. And though there may be no hand to close your eyes and no breast on which to rest your dying head, and no candle to lift the night, the odors of God’s hanging garden will regale your soul and at your bedside will halt the chariots of the king. No more rents to pay, no more agony because flour has gone up, no more struggling with “the world, the flesh and the devil,” but peace—long, deep, everlasting peace. Stephen asleep! Asleep in Jesus, blessed sleep, From which none ever wake to weep; A calm and undisturbed repose, Uninjured by the last-of foes. Asleep in Jesus, far from thee Thy kindred and thy graves may be, But there is still a blessed sleep,, From which none ever wake to weep. You have seen enough for one day. N< one can successfully examine more than five pictures in a day. Therefore we stop, having seen this cluster of divine Raphaels —Stephen gazing into heaven, Stephen looking at Christ, -Stephen stoned, Stephen in his dying prayer, Stephen asleep. Queer Phonograph Cylinders. “Some of the Western demands for phonograph cylinders,” said a dealer In those articles, “are surprising, even to me. We send out the latest popular songs and marches on our cylinders, as a matter of course, and we make special cylinders for our customers. Topical songs go better than anything else on a cylinder. Several weeks go I received a letter from Southern California asking for a cylinder that would tell the story of Maria Barberi, the Italian murderess. The writer said that there was great interest in her case in his town, and if he could get a cylinderdealing with it he could make bls fortune. I thought this a freak request, and I wrote back, that it would be impossible to. comply with his demand. To my astonishment I received a dozen similar requests from different parte of the West. What did I do about it? Why, J furnished the article, of course. A newspaper man wrote a dramatic story of the murder committed by this Italian girl and a little reView of her trial. It was done in 1,000 words, so that I could get it on one cylinder. Then I engaged a professional elocutionist to recite it into the phonograph. Now, would you think such a thing as that would ‘go?’ Well, it did, and lam receiving orders every week' for Maria Barberi cylinders. Public taste Is something that one can't safely guess at, and in my business I’ve given up trying.’’—New York Sun. The product of a single pair of sparrows, If each pair should have twentyfour young iu a year and all live, would in ten years numßer 275,716,983,608 birds. The bird hatches five or six broods in a year, and produces from four to six young in a brood. The Arminians took their,name from their leader, Arminiusi born in 1566, died in 1609. Their doctrines are still held by several Methodist bodies.