Decatur Democrat, Volume 39, Number 30, Decatur, Adams County, 11 October 1895 — Page 8

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CHAPTER ll.—(Continued). “Present!” shouted Saintone, as his yes glared triumphantly on his victim. Again there was a peculiar rattling disc made by the pieces, heard above le roar of the flames. Then — “Fire!” A dozen flashes darted from as many mskets; there was a deafening roar; the noke liung heavy for a few moments, nd then as Nousie strained forward it as (o see the cloud rise quickly, borne v the current of air setting toward the urning cottage right over the heads of le firing party, and she uttered a low •y as with starting eyes she saw her husand writhing on the ground among the owers by the fence. “Mine (Jbw,” said a voice at her side; nd she shrank a little, but gazed still at ie spot where Dulau lay* Then with a piteous sigh, she said soft•May I go to him with our child ?” Saintone did not hear or did not heed ?r, for he had stepped forward at once ■wards where Dulau still writhed. In the terrible moment when a couple : bullets had struck him, he had made ie great superhuman muscular effort, < id burst the bonds which held his arms, id now his crisped fingers were tearing irribly at the grass and flowers around. “Out of his misery,” said Saintone brief ■ to a sergeant of his force, and the man •a huge mulatto —stepped forward with is loaded piece, presented the barrel at ‘ulau’s head, and was about to fire, hen the barrel was seized. What followed seemed instantaneous. Taken by surprise, the piece was tatched from the man’s hand, and in the ill blaze of the fire all saw Dulay upon is knees, supporting himself with .one ind, as with the other he swung rdtnd - ie musket, held it pistol-wise, and thcro as a ringing report, followed by\ 1 awful yell of despair, as the roof of ie cottage fell in. ' ■ Then in the wild rush of flames, Sainne was seen staggering forward with s hands clasped to his forehead, as he ■mt himself back, head toward heels alost in a bow, fell with a crash, quivered Er a moment, and then his muscles slow- & relaxed. It was amid a silence—the silence of i tdden surprise, awe and death. CHAPTER 111. g “Oh, murder! What a horrible daub!” Bid Paul Lowther, drawing back from Ls easel. “I’m afraid I shall never make ifl'Titian.” [He laid down palette and mahl stick, U : ;«k up and filled a pipe, lit it, and began j . aoking as he walked up and down begpath the skylight of his little studio in Rue de la Cite, Paris. I He had been hard at work upon an I ttique head, one of his studies in the | irsuit of art. dividing his time pretty E&ally between Charlotte street, Fitzroy uare. and the studios of Paris. L “It’s a curious thing,” he said, stopping I id forming a cloud of smoke in front of ,s picture, a cloud which seemed very ipropriate to the head he had been .inting. “Yes,” he said again, “it’s curitX That isn’t bad —for me, but it isn’t (bit like the goddess in the Louvre. It’s abe again, that it is, and do what I will Hey’ll come like her. Hah!! he cried, J he took up the canvas and gazed at it I * rinelv, “I feel fobl enough to kiss you— PII not quite—for Ido know that the ould come off wet.” •••- >t back the canvas, smoked hard, k down a photograph from a shelf ie stove—the likeness of a very al girl with large dreamy dark d heavy folds of hair. ” he said, “coarse and clumsy, but fully like you, darling. Your lips t come off wet. Only wish they ’ he added, and he kissed the phoU and then hurriedly replaced it, ight up his palette and brushes, for ,-as a step on the stairs, evidently ie flight below. it a fool a fellow in love does make ielf!” iegan to whistle softly, and conpainting the background upon he had been engaged as the steps learer; then came a heavy thump door which was thrust open sharpa rather plain-looking young felfotrr or five and twenty, as careIressed as the young artist at the ■ntered noisily and stopped short. 10, Antonius!” he cried merrily. , my industrious one, painting ami away?” Lowther turned his handsome, ; face to the newcomer with a it smile so lighting up his counb that there was some cause for nd’s appellation. •ning, Bart,” he said; “been at the !" I’t ask questions. If I tell you yes, want to know whether -I’ve been ing, or seeing an operation; and >u’ll begin to sniff and curl up that me upper lip, apd look disgusted icomfortable. Ignorance is bliss, lAfriend. Smoking again, eh?” he led, as he threw down his hat and > take a short black pipe out of his “Are you aware that smoking is n of young men? That it is deadly and—where’s your ’bacco?” -shelf,” said Paul, painting avvay ately. nph! Hope it’s better than the continued the newcomer, filling up hting his pipe—“ Not quite so bad. hen, let’s have a look at the work, age, as we say in Par-ree.” Lowther drew back, and his friend is place,' smoking hard the while, tood with his legs wide apart, and ids deep down in his. pockets. vo, old chap! I shall make soinef you yet. Exactly like her.” e? Like whom?” said Paul, eolorjhtly. ! what’s the good of playing ignorWoadsrfuUy like the photograph,

old chap. I say—l know it’s pretty cool to ask it, but between friends—l don’t want much, but you might knock me off a sketch of your sister.” “Nonsense, man,” said Paul, hastily. “That’s not .a portrait; it’s the head of the Cyprian Venus in the Louvre." “Oh, is it?” said the other dryly. “Beg pardon; my mistake,” and as he spoke he gave his friend a queer look. “Any news from the convent?” “Yes,” said Paul, sitting down and placing his hands behind hi.° head. “Lucie sent me a letter last night. Quite well and happy." “And Miss Dulau?” “Yes, quite well, too,” said Paul, dreamily. “I say, Bart, old man. seriously, you and I ought to be happy fellows.” “What? Come, I like that” “What do you mean?” “Oh, I don't get on, lad. Here I work as hard as a man can, but I get no fur-' ther. Sometimes I feel as if I ought to have stuck to the English school instead of frittering my time away in the French.” “And when you are in London you think just the same!” said Paul, smiling slightly. > , A “There, I will not be a humbug, old fellow 7 . Yes, I do. But I’m uneasy. It’s all very well what you say about your sister liking me, but it’s because she has led that shut-up life all those years. She has seen me. and I am almost the only fellow she has seen. As soon as she leaves the convent, and you take her over to London, and she sees no end of goodlooking fellows, it will be all over with poor me.” “Don’t be a fool, Bart. Y'ou’re the bestlooking fellow I know’—inside. I can see it clairvoyantly. Lucie isn’t such a little idiot as to take to a fellow because he is handsome as a barber’s dummy.” “But then you are,” said Bart, dryly; “and the sweetest and the most charming 'smtt I ever sawjn an augenblick has taken a'fsacg 10-ydu.” “I can’t help my looks, Bart,” said Paul quietly. “And I’m like you, old man; I feel my doubts about the time when she leaves the convent.” He sat looking dreamily at his canvas, and the two young men smoked on in silence. “Oh, no, old chap,” said Bart, at last, and he leaned forward and laid his hand affectionately on the artist’s knee, “she is not the girl to do that. 1 say, how long has she been there?” “Fifteen years.” “Father dead; mother in Hayti.” Paul nodded. “Wealthy woman, isn’t she?” “I don’t know, I suppose so.” There was another pause. “Seems rum, doesn’t it, Paul, old chap, that she has never been over to see the child. Os course, it’s not like your sister’s case.” “I haven’t thought as you do,” said Paul, “but we cannot judge a woman in her position. It seems that it was the father’s wish that his child should be educated In his native place, and from what Lucie tells me the mother h,as made a great sacrifice in parting from her child.” “But does the mother—Madame Dulau —mean to come here and settle?” “I don’t know.” “She won’t want to—hang it, old man, don’t start like that.” “Don’t, Bart,” cried his friend excitedly., “That's always hanging over me like a cloud. Oh, no. Hayti is quite a savage kind of place, ’all revolution and horror. The father was killed in one of the ris-" ings. No woman who loves her child to the extent of parting from her for hetgood would fetch her over there. Oh, no; of course she will come and settle here. Retire, I suppose. She has plantations, or something, from w-hich she draws her revenues. But there; I know nothing at all but some scraps of information Lucie has written to me from time to time.” Another quiet interval of smoking, and then Bartholomew Durham spoke. “I suppose I’m no judge,” he said quietly. “I seem to have thought of nothing else but bones and muscles and nerves, and the other ins and outs of my trade, but somehow I don’t like convents.” “Don’t be prejudiced, old fellow,”’ said Paul. “Where could an orphan girl like my sister have been happier or brought up in a sweeter, purer seclusion? There was question of religion in the matter, and if ever woman deserves her name of Mother Superior, Sister Elise is that woman.” “Yes, I suppose so,” said the young doctor. "Never seems to have tried to persuade them to quit the world, eh?” “Oh, never. Luce would have told me directly. No, old fellow, the two girls love her and the Sisters dearly, and if ever any man felt grateful I do to the. old lady.” , “Nice old body,” said Bart. “The time’ I saw her, I thought it was a shame.” “A shame! What?” “That such a nice woman should have shut herself up as she did years ago, and robbed the worhl of a good wife andmother. ' I suppose she never saw Mr. • Right. I say, though, do you think your I sister cares for me?” ; “I wish I was as sure that some one else i would be as true to me.” “What?” cried Bart, joyously, as he ran his hands through his rough hair. - “Then it's all right, old fellow, for I’d swear you are safe. I say, though, I > shall be glad when they leave the con- > vent.” “I shall notj,” said Paul sadly. - “Why?” ' “Because, man, I am afraid—l am 1 afraid.” , “Nonsense. I say, I’ve had a fresh letI ter from the agents this morning. That business is settled. <4’m to have the prac- - tice in six months. The old man says he shall keep oil for that time and gradually - bid good-by to his patients'; Then he hands over his lancet, and bottles of salts - and senna to yours truly. It’s a capital , old practice, Paul. Deposit paid, and I

step into the house, take the furniture and everything, a full-blown doctor. “And you will go on with your studies in the hospitals here till then /” “I go on practicing here or wherever a certain young lady may be, as 1 hayO done before, old fellow. I enn t begin practicing as a settled down medical man without a wife.” “I think you'are secure,” said I aul laughing and holding out his hand. ’M o have been inseparable for twelve years qow, and I know your heart; so does Luce. Bart, old chap, I would not wish her a happier fate.” v The doctor's lip quivered a little, and he had held his friend's hand for somo moments before he said, rather huskily; “Thank you, old fellow.” They neither of them seemed to wish to talk then for a time, but sat smoking till all at once Bart exclaimed f “I don’t know, though.” “Don't.know what?” said Paul, smib ing. “But what all this has been for the best," "I don’t understand you.” “Yes, you do,” said Bart testily. “I mean about those two being at school all these years in the convent. It brought you over here constantly to bo near your sister, and that brought you face to face with an angel. Then you have had the run of the jraris studios, and got into a brighter, lighter style than if you had been always working in the fog in Newman or Charlotte street.” “By the same rule through coming over to see me then it has induced you to stay and study, too.” “Exactly. Wonderful how well things work for the best,”, said Bart, merrily. “I say, when are you going to see your sister again.” “Don't know. When Idol am not going to take you. so rest assured of that.” '“And 1 thought we were brothers,” said the young man with a grimace. “You’ll see plenty of Lucie by-and-by.” “Never, sir! never; not half enough. But I say, when will she leave the convent and come and settle down to keep house for you?” “Not till her friend leaves, and may that be long first,” said Paul thoughtfully. Then turning merrily from- his friend, “Why, you miserable, shallow, old impostor," he cried, “to ask me such a question—When is she coming to keep house for me? How long—now answer me honestly—if you can! —how long if you have your own way will you let her keep house for me?” “Eh?” said Bart, ruffling up his hair again, and with a mirthful look in his eyes—“honestly—how long?” “Yes. How long?” “Not an hour more than I can help, old fellow—there.” “Well,” said Bart, looking at his watch, “I must be off. I’ve got engagements with two broken legs and a fractured skull.” f “Good heavens!” a “But I say, that's capital about the practice, isn’t it?” “I congratulate you, Bart.” “Yes, I knew you’d be pleased. Stiff price. Keep me rather tight for a bit, but it isn't often a man can drop in for so genuine an affair. And so much in my way. too.” “How do you mean?” “So near the branch line of the, Nibley and Greaterham Railway. They always have a bad accident once a month.” “Then I shall not come to visit you by rail. See you at the club to-night?” “Yes, of course, ta ta. Bart Durham went noisily out of the studio and clattered down the stairs, while Paul Lowther drew his easel into a better light. “Poor old Bart,” he said, smiling; “yes. he and Luce’will be as happy as the day is long.” He stopped, gazing dreamily at the head he had been painting. “Yes,” he said, softly, “it is like her. She fills my very being, and I involuntarily produce her features when I paint. G» —leave Paris?” he said, excitedly. “N<-, impossible. They could not take her t 1 ) that wretched island. I wonder what Madame Dulau is, and -when she will come.” He paused to think. “Yes; she must be rich,” he said, softly; “and lam comparatively poor. What will she say to me when I tell her all? I suppose she is a Frenchwoman, too. Went with her husband when he emigrated to Hayti. What a change from gay Paris! Well, some men have, those tastes. But what will she say to me when she comes? What is she like! Some hard, stern Frenchwoman, I suppose, accustomed to her plantation and her slaves. lamin no hurry to meet her. Better go on in- this dreamy life for—yes, my darling, I love you with all my heart.” So mused and dreamed on Paul Lowther in bis studio, and there was very little more painting done that day. (To be continued.) Some Figures. In the complete Indian census report Just published an interesting attempt is made for the first time to cast up In figures an aggregate of the government expenditures on account of the red men residing within the United States since the Union was established In 1789. The result of this attempt Indicates in the statistics presented that the gigantic sum of $1,105,219,372 was spent by the government up to the year 1890, either upon the Indians directly, or because of Indians. Counting in, however, 'the civil and military expenses for Indians since then, together with incidental expenses not recognized in the official figures given, it is safe to say that up to June 30, 1895, a further sum of .$144,780,043 may be added to the aggregate figures, making a grand aggregate of $1,250,000,000 chargeable to Indians to date. The Indian wars under the government of the United States are stated to have numbered more than forty, and to have cost the lives of about 19,000 white men, Women and children, including about 5,000 killed in individual encounters, of which history takes no note, and of 30,(XX) Indians, including 8,500 killed in personal encounters.— Boston Globe. - . ;' - - “John Brown’s Body” was written by Charles S. Hall, of Charlestown, Mass. The melody was a negro tune, sung in South Caroliua and Georgia, at the religious meetings of the slaves, to the words, “Say, Brothers, Will You Meet Me.” It was first played by the band of the Boston Light Infantry in 1861. In 1864 it crossed the ocean and tyacams a grsat favorits In London* ,

TALMAGE’S SERMON. THE PREACHER MAKES A POINT BLANK QUERY. Jehu's Question to Jehonadab—lt Was Not More Appropriate for That Hour and Place than it la for This Hour and Place—An Eloquent Discourse. la Thy Heart Right? In his sermon last Sunday Rev. Dr. Talmage spoke directly to the hearts of all who have not yet definitely accepted the free offer of salvation in Christ Jesus. The subject was “A Point Blank Question,” the text being 11. Kings x., 10, “Is thine heart right?” With mettled horses at full speed, for he was celebrated for fast driving; Jehu, the warrior and king, returns from battle. But seeing Jehonadab, an acquaintance, by the wayside, he shouts: “Whoa! Whoa!” to the lathered span. Then leaning over to Jehonadab, Jehu salutes him in the words of the text—words not more appropriate for that hour and that place than for this hour and place, “Is thine heart right?” I should like to hear of your physical health. Well myself, I like to have everybody else well, and so might ask: Is your eyesight right, your hearing right? Are your nerves right, your lungs right? Is your entire body right? But I am busy to-day taking diagnosis of the more important spiritual conditions. I should like to hear of your financial welfare. I want everybody to have plenty of money, ample apparel, large storehouse and comfortable residence, and I might ask: Is your business right, your income right? Are your worldly surroundings right? But what are these financial questions compared with the inquiry as to whether you have been able to pay your debts to God; as to whether you are insured for eternity; as to whether you are ruining yourself by the long credit system of the soul? I have known men to have no more than one loaf of bread at s time, and yet to own a government bond of heaven worth more than the whole material universe. The question I ask you to-day is not in regard to your habits. I make no inquiry about your integrity, or your chastity, or your sobriety. I do not mean to stand on the outside of the gate and ring the bell, but coming up the steps I open the door and come to the private apartment of the soul, and with the earnestness of a man that must give an account of this day’s work I cry put, O man, O woman immortal, is thine heart right? I will not insult you by an argument to prove that we are by nature all wrong. If there be a factory explosion, and the smokstack be upset, and the wheels be broken in two, and the engine unjointed, the ponderous bars be twisted, and a man should look in and say that nothing was the matter, you would pronounce him a fool. Well, it needs no acumen to discover that pur nature is all atwist and askew and unjointed. The thing doesn’t work right. The biggest trouble we have in the world is with our souls. Men sometimes say that, though their lives may not be just right, their heart is all right. Impossible. A farmer never puts the poorest apples on top of his barrel, nor does the merchant place the meanest goods in his show window. The best part of us is our outward life. I do not stop to discuss whether we all fell in Adam, for we have been our own Adam, and have all eaten of the forbidden fruit, and have been turned out of the paradise of holiness and peace, and though the flaming sword that stood at the gate to keep us out has changed position and comes behind to drive us in we will not go. The Bible account of us in not exaggerated when it says that we are poor and wretched and miserable and blind and naked. Poor! The wretch that stands shivering on our doorstep on a cold day is not so much in need of bread as we are of spiritual help. Blind! Why, the man whose eyes perished in the powder blast and who for these ten years has gone feeling his way from street to street is not in such utter darkness as we. Naked! Why, there is not one rag of holiness left to hide the shame of our sin. Sick! Why, the leprosy has eaten into the head, and the heart, and the hands, and the feet, and the marasmus of an everlasting wasting away has already seized on some of us. But the meanest thing for a man to do is to discourse about an evil without pointing away to have it remedied. I speak of the thirst of your hot tongue only that I may show you the living stream that drops crystalline and sparkling from the Rock of Ages and pours a river of gladness at your feet. If I show you the rents in your coat, it is only because the 7 door of God’s wardrobe now swings open, and here is a robe white with the fleece of the Lamb of God. and of a cut and make that an angel would not be pshamed to wear. First we need a repenting heart. • If for the last ten, twenty, or forty years of life we have been going on in the wrong way, it is time that we turned around and started in the opposite direction. If we offend our friends, we are glad to apologize. God is our best friend, and yet how many of us have never apologized for the wrongs we have done Him! There is nothing that we so much need to get rid of as sin. It is a horrible black monster. It polluted Eden. It killed Christ. It has blasted the world. Men keep dogs in kennels, and rabbits in a warren, and cattle in a pen. What a man that would be who would shut them upln his parlor! But this foul dog of sin and these herds of transgression we have entertained for many a long year in our heart, which should be the cleanest, brightest room in all our nature. Out with the vile herd! Begone, ye befoulers of an immortal nature! Turn out the beasts and let Christ come In! A heathen came to an early Christian who had the reputation of curing diseases. The Christian said “You must have all your idols destroyed." The heathen gave to the Christian the key to his house, that he might go in and destroy the idols. He battered to pieces all he saw, but still the man did not get well. The Christian said to him: “There must be some idol in your house not yet destroyed.” The heathen confessed that there was one idol of beaten gold that he eOu Id not bear to give up. After awhile, when that was destroyed, in answer to the prayer of the Christian the sick man got well. Many a man has awakened in his dying hour to find his sins all about him. They clamber up on the right side of the bed, and on the left side, and over the headboard, and over the footboard, and horri' bly devour the soul. “Repent, the voice of celestial cries* Nor longer dare delay,. ,

The wretch that scorns the mandate dies And meets a fiery day." Again, we need a believing heart. A good many years ago a weary one went up one of the hills of Asia Minor, and with two logs on his back cried out to all the world, offering to carry their sins and sorrows. They pursued him. They slapped him in the face. They mocked him. When he groaned, they groaned. They shook their fists at him. They spat on him. They hounded him as though he were a wild beast. His healing of the sick, his sight giving to the blind, his mercy to the outcast silenced not the revenge of the world. His prayers and benedictions were lost in that whirlwind of execration: “Away with him! Away with him I" Ah, it was not merely the two pieces of wood that he carried. It was the transgressions of the race, the anguish of the ages, the wrath of God, the sorrows of hell, the stupendous interest of an unending eternity. No wonder his back bent. No wonder the blood started from every pore. No wonder that he crouched under a torture that made the sun faint, and the everlasting hills tremble, and the dead rush up in their winding sheets as he cried: “If it be possible, let this cup pass from me.” But the cup did not pass. None to comfort. There he hangs! What has that hand done that it should be thus crushed in the palm? It has been healing the lame and wiping away tears. What has that foot been doing that it should be so lacerated ? It has been going about doing good. Os what has the victim been guilty? Guilty of saving a world. Tell me, ye heavens and earth, was there ever such another criminal? Was there ever such a crime? On that hill of carnage, that sunless day, amid those howling rioters, may not your sins and mine have perished? I believe it. Oh, the ransom has been paid! Those arms of Jesus were stretched out so wide that when he brought them together again they might embrace the world. Oh, that I might, out of the blossoms of the spring or the flaming foliage of the autumn, make one wreath for my Lord! Oh, that all the triumphal arches of the world could be swung in one gateway, where the King of Glory might come in! Oh, that all the harps and trumpets and organs of earthly music might in one anthem speak His praise! But what were earthly flowers to Him who walketh amid the snqw of the white lilies of heaven? What were arches of earthly masonry to him who hath about his throne a rainbow spun out of everlasting sunshine? What were all earthly music to him when the hundred and forty and four thousand on one side, and the cherubim and seraphim and archangels stand on the other side, and all the space between is filled with the doxologies of eternal jubilee—the hosanna of a redeemed earth, the halleluiah of unfallen angels, song after song rising about the throne of God and of the Lamb? In that pure, high place let him hear us. Stop, harps of heaven, that our poor cry may be heard. Omy Lord Jesus, it will not hurt thee for one hour to step out from the shining throng. They will make it all up when thou goest back again. Come hither, O blessed one, that we may kiss thy feet. Our hearts, too long withheld, we now surrender into thy keeping. When thou goest back, tell it to all the immortals that the lost are found and let the Father's house ring with the music and the dance. They have some old wine in heaven not used except in rare festivities. In this world those who are accustomed to use wine on great occasions bring out the beverage and say: “This wine is thirty years old” or “forty years old.” But the wine of hpaven is more than eighteen centuries old. It was prepared at the time when Christ trod the wine press alone. When such grievous sinners as we come back, methinks the chamberlain of heaven cries out to the servants: “This is unusual joy. Bring up from the vaults of heaven that old wine. Fill all the tankards. Let all the white robed guests drink to the immortal health of those newborn sons and daughters of the Lord Almighty.” “There is joy in heaven among the angels of God over one sinner that repenteth,” and God grant that that one may be you! Again, to have a right heart it must be a forgiving heart. An old writer says: “To return good for evil is Godlike. Good for good is manlike. Evil for good deVillike.” Which of these natures have we? Christ will have nothing to do with us as long as we keep any old grudge. We have all been cheated and lied about. There are people who dislike us so much that if we should come down to poverty and disgrace they would say: “Good for him! Didn’t I tell you so?” They do not understand us. Unsanctified human nature says: “Wait till you get a good crack at him, and when at last you find him In a tight place give it to him. Flay him alive.'* No quarter. Leave not a rag of reputation. Jump on him with both feet. Pay him in his own coin—sarcasm for sarcasm, scorn for scorn, abuse for abuse.” But, my friends, that is not the right kind of heart. No man ever did so mean a thing toward us as we have done toward God.' And if we cannot forgive others, how can we expect God to forgive us? Thousands of men have been kept out of heaven by an unforgiving heart. Here is some one who says: “I will forgive that man the wrong he did me about that house and lot. I will forgive that man who overreached me in a bargain. I will forgive that man who sold me a shoddy overcoat. I forgive them—all but one. That man I cannot forgive. The villain— I can hardly keep my hands off him. If my going to heaven depends on my forgiving him, then I will stay out.” Wrong feeling. If a man lie to me once, I am not called to trust him again. If a man betray me once, I am not called to put confidence in him again: But I would have no rest if I could not offer a sincere prayer for the temporal and everlasting welfare of all men, whatever meannesses and outrage they have inflicted upon me. If you want to get your heart right, strike a match and burn up all your old grudges and blow the ashes away. “If you forgive not men their trespasses, neither will your heavenly Father forgive you your trespasses.” An old Christian black woman was going along the streets Os New York with a basket of apples that she had for sale. A rough sailor ran against her and upset the basket and stood back expecting to hear her scold frightfully, but she stooped down and picked up the apples and said, “God forgive you, my son, as I do.” The sailor saw the meanness of what he had done, and felt in his pocket for his money, and insisted that she should take it all. Though she was black, he called her mother and said: “Forgive me, mother. I will never do anything so mean again.” Ah, there is a power in a forgiving spirit to overcome all hardness. There is no way of conquering men like, that of be■towing upon them your pardon whoUst

they will accept It or not. Again, a right heart is an expectant heart. It is a poor business to bo building castles in tho air. Enjoy what you have now. Don’t spoil your comfort in the small house because you expect a larger one. Don’t fret about your Income when it is $3 or $4 per day because you expect to have after awhile SlO oer day, or SIO,OOO a year because you expect it to be $20,000 a year. But about heavenly things the more we think tho better. Those castles are not in the air, but on the hills, and we have a deed of them in our possession. 1 like to see a man all full of heaven. He talks heaven. He sings heaven. He prays heaven. He dreams heaven. Somo of us in eur sleep have had tho good place open to us. We saw the pinnacles in the sky. We heard the click of the hoofs of tho white horses on which the victors rode and the clapping of the cymbals of eternal triumph. And, while in our sleep we were glad that all our sorrows were over artd burdens done with, the throne of God grew whiter and whiter and whiter till we opened our eyes and saw that it was only tho sun of earthly morning shining on dur pillow. To have a right heart you need to be filled with this expectancy. It would make your privations and annoyances more bearable. » In the midst of the city of Paris stands a statue of the good but broken hearted Josephine. I never imagined that marble could be smitten into such tenderness. It seems not lifeless. If the spirit of Josephine be disentabernacled, the soul of the empress has taken possession of this figure. I am not yet satisfied that it is stone. The puff of the dress on the arm seems to need but the pressure of the finger to indent it. The figures at the bottom of the robe, the ruffle at the neck, the fur lining on the dress, the embroidery of the satin, the cluster of lily and leaf and rose in her hand, the poise of her body as she seems to come sailing out of the sky, her face calm, humble, beautiful bit yet sad—attest the genius of the sculptor and the beauty of the heroine he celebrates. Looking up through the rifts of the coronet that encircles her brow, I could see the sky beyond, the great heavens where all woman’s wrongs shall be righted, and the story of endurance and resignation shall be told to all ages. The rose and the lily In the hand of Josephine will never drop their petals. Believe not the recent slanders upon her memory. The children of God, whether they suffer on earth in palaces or in hovels, shall come to that glorious rest. 0 heaven, sweet heaven, at thy gate we set down all our burdens and griefs. The place will be full. Here there are vacant chairs at the hearth and at the table, but there are no vacant chairs In heaven—the. crowns all worn, the thrones all mounted. Some talk of heavefa as though it were a very handsome church, where a few favored spirits would come in and sit down on finely cushioned seats all by themselves and sing psalms to all eternity. No, no. “I saw a great multitude that no man could number standing before the throne. He that talked with me had a golden reed to measure the city, and it was 12,000 furlongs”—that is, 1,500 miles—in circumference. Ah, heaven is not a little colony at one corner of God's dominion, where a man’s entrance depends upon what kind of clothes he has on his back and how much money he has in his purse, but a vast empire. God grant that the light of that blessed world may shine upon us in our last moment. The first time I crossed the Atlantic the roughest time we had was nt the. mouth of Liverpool harbor. We arrived at nightfall and were obliged to lie there till the. morning waiting for the rising of the tide before we could go up to the city. How the vessel pitched and writhed in the water! So sometimes the last illneas of the Christian is a struggle. He is almost through the voyage. The waves of temptation toss his soul, but he waits for the morning. At last the light dawhs, and the tides of joy rise in bis soul and he sails up and casts anchor within the vale. Is thy heart right? What question can compare with this in importance? It is a business question. Do you not realize that you will soon have to go out of that store; that you’ will soon have to resign that partnership; that soon among all the millions of dollars’ worth of goods that are sold you will not have the handling of a yard of cloth, or a pound of sugar, or a pennyworth of anything; that soon, if a conflagration should start at Central park and sweep everything to the Battery, it w&uld not disturb you; that soon, if every cashier should abscond and. every insurance company should fail, it would not affect you? What are the questions that stop this side the grave compared with the questions that reach beyond it? Are you making losses*that are to be everlasting? Are you making purchases for eterni. .' Are you jobbing for time when you might be wholesaling for eternity? What question of the store is so broad at the base, and so altitudinous, and so overwhelming as the question, “Is they heart right?” Or is it a domestic question ? Is it something about father or mother or companion or son or daughter that you think is comparable with this question in importance? Do you not realize that by universal and inexorable law all these relations will be broken up? Your fattier will be gone, your mother will be gone, your companion will be gone, your child will be gone, be gone, and then this su- > pernal question will begin to harvest its chief gains or deplore its worst losses, roll up into its mightiest magnitude or sweep its vast circles. What difference now does it nrtke to Napoleon HI. whether he triumphed or surrendered at Sedan ? Whether be lived at the Tuileries or at Chiselhurst? Whether he was emperor or exile? They laid him out in his coffin in the dress of a field marshal. Did that give him any better chance for the next world than if he had been laid out in a plain shroud? And soon "to us what will be the difference whether in this world we rode or walked, were bowed to or mal-* treated, were applauded or hissed at, were welcomed in or kicked out, while laying hold of very moment of the great future, and burning in all the splendor or grief and overarching and undergoing all time and all eternity is the plain, simple, practical, thrilling, agonizing, over- \ whelming question, “Is thy heart right?” Have you within you a repenting heart, an expectant heart? If so, I must write upon your soul what George Whitefield wrote upon the window pane with his diamond ring. He tarried in an elegant house over night, but found that there was no God recognized in that house. Before he left his room in the morning with, his ring he wrote upon the window pane, “One thing thou lackest.” After the, guest was gone the housewife came and looked at the window, and saw the inscription, a,nd called her husband and her, children, and God, through that ministry, of the wiridow glass, brought them all toi Jesus. Though you may to-day be sur-| rounded by comforts and luxuries and feel that you have need of nothing, if you are not the children.of God, with thq signet ring of Christ’s love, let me in, scribe upon your souls, “Qua. thing thotj laclwsti • «-