Decatur Democrat, Volume 39, Number 31, Decatur, Adams County, 18 October 1895 — Page 7

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CHAPTER IV. The sun shone down through the delicate rounded green leaves of the great lindens, and lay in golden patches on the gr'avel and velvet lawn, just as the moon scattered its light in silver in the soft summer nights. Beyond the trees, hidden by laurel and dense thickets of lilac and maythorn, was -the tall old brick wall, with quiet street and lane, and beyond them gay, brilliant, noisy Paris, whose voices only came within that garden in a faint, soft murmur. All within there was a grave, quiet calm, amid which the flowers bloomed to perfection, and the.great dark green leaves of the lilies seemed to sleep on the surface of the broad grass-margined pond, where the carp and gold fish sailed here and there, and came up for a moment to form a ring as they sucked down scrap of white bread or well-soaked biscuit. Half hidden by the trees was the old picturesque chateau, with its fastened back louvres to every window—blindh so seldom used that the creepers and vines had wreathed themselves in and out, holding them back, and hanging over the windows to 1 form natural sunshades, which waved here and there in the summer breeze. At one time the courtly beauties and gay cavaliers may have paced that garden, but for a hundred years it had been held by the Sisters of St. Cecile, forming their convent now, where the Superior and her daughters in the faith received en pension a few young ladies to educate and share the peaceful calm of the dreamy old place. There were some half-dozen of the Sisters about the grounds that soft summer morning, tending flowers, reading, working, or seated here and there in dreamy thought, their quaint garb forming a picturesque addition to the general picture of calm and peace. But all was not silence, for from an open window, pleasantly subdued, came the sparkling notes of a fine-toned evidently touched by a brilliant player, whose performance had taken the attention of a fair, prettily-featured girl of about eighteen, who sat with a drawing upon which she had been engaged, being a sketch of a couple of Sisters in a nook between two great tufts of lilac, one reading to the other, whose fingers were busy over a piece of needlework. As the girl sat in the shade of one of the lindens listening dreamily to the grand old sonata, whose notes floated to her ear, a quiet, grave-looking lady, pleasantly plump and smooth of-face, though there were marks suggesting sixty years at the corners of her eyes and lips, and one tiny streak of gray hair just peeping beneath the pure white headdress, which covered her brow, came silently up behind the chair, and stood looking down at the sketch. She nodded her head as if satisfied, and then bent down and lightly touched the girl’s arm. “Oh!” she cried, starting. “I did not hear you come.” “Well, have you finished?” “Not yet,” said the girl, quickly. “I was listening to Aube. I wish I could play as well.” “Try,” said the Sister, smiling. As she spoke the music ceased, and directly after a tall, graceful figure in white appeared at the open door, held one hand over two dark eyes for a moment, tojscreen them from the sun, and then catching sight of the group beneath the lindens, she came quickly over the grass to join them. There was a sad and pensive smile on the old Sister's face as the pianist approached; and as she came up, her hand was taken and held for a few moments and her face scanned. “Excellent, my qhild, excellent. We have been listening to your playing.” “Oh, no,” said the girl, with her soft, dreamy-looking face lighting up; “I made so many mistakes. Ah, Luce, how is the drawing?” she continued, as the old Sister nodded, smiled, and walked gravely on toward the open door. “Screaming out for the india-rubber,” was the reply. “Oh, Aube, dear, I shall never draw. Brother Paul will roar with laughter at my work again.” “But Mr. Durham would not,” said Aube, smiling, and showing her regular white teeth. “Hush! Don’t!” said Luce, with a look of mock alarm, as she gave a quick glange around. “You shouldn’t, Aube. It’s too dreadful to think of gentlemen in this place. What would Sister Elise think, «nd the Sisters generally.” “What nonsense!” “Isn’t it, dear? Sinle I’ve been able to . think for myself about such things, I’ve felt sure that the word man or gentleman ought not to be mentioned in the hearing of any of the Sisters.” “Luce, what trivial things you do say!” “Trivial in some cases, perhaps, but what is all very well for us who at any time may be called upon to give up the school-girl life, would be very serious for Sister Elizabeth and Sister Marie, and the rest. They are not so very old yet. But I say: sit down, other letter from Paul.” Aube was silent, but there was a slight tinge of color in her cheeks which was duly noted by her companion, as she walked slowly to the edge of the pond, took out a biscuit, and began to throw tiny crumbs to feed the fish. Luce Lowther, with a mischievous smile on her lips, rose tpo, and went silently behind her companion. ■'Poqr Paul!” she said, with mock sorrow in her tones, “he will be so grieved.” “Why,” said Aube quickly, and her soft dreamy eyes flashed a little. “I, shall have to tell him that as soon as I mentioned his name you got up and walked away.” There was a faint splash as a fish rose at a crumb and took it under the clear water. “It does seem hard on the poor fellow,”

continued Lucie. “Now, how can it be! I suppose it must be caused by you, a girl of French parents, being born in the West Indies.” “I don’t understand you,” said Aube, gravely. “No! Well, I'mean this inherent coquetry of your nature. Poor Paul! I know he loves you very much.” "Lucie, dear, you hurt me,” said Aube, sadly. “Why will you be so frivolous about so serious a matter? Your brother has hardly seen me, and then it was only for a few moments.” “Quite long enough to make a hole in his heart, Aube, dear,” whispered Luce. “He does nothing but rave about you in his letters, and he has painted your portrait again and again.” “Luce!” “From memory and your photograph.” “What? Oh, how could he get one?” “I told him the name of the photographer who took you whpn those two were obtained on purpose to send to Madame Dulau as she wished, and he pursuaded the man to let him have one." “Luce!” cried Aube, and her soft, creamy complexion began to glow with the rich warm color beneath. “It was very shocking of course; but' Aube, darling, we are not going to be nuns. We shall soon have finished all this life, and then of course I shall be Mrs. Doctor Durham and you will be ” “Luce, dear, you hurt me,” said Aube, excitedly. “Don’t talk like that, dear.” “Very well, then, I will not; but I do hope some day, Aube, that you and I will be really sisters. No, no; don’t stop me. Paul is the dearest and best of brothers.” "I’m sure he is,” said Aube. “And some day when your mamma leaves that terrible hot island, and comes to live in Paris, I am sure she will like the dear old boy and love him as I do, though we do seem to have seen so little of each other with my being shut up here.” “Where you have been very happy, dear.” “Happy? Yes, of course. Why, the dear old Sisters have petted us as if We had been their dolls.” “They have always been most kind,” said Auße. “I shall be very sorry to leave them.” “Os course; and so shall I; but it must come some day. Madame Dulau is sure to fetch you before long, and then—oh, Aube, dear, it’s very sad to be like me — no one to fetch me home.” “You must come and make your home with me,” said Aube, passing her arm about the slight merry-looking little thing. “Yes,” said Luce with a mischievous look, “I do hope you find Paul will often want me.” “Luce!” “Oh, I beg your pardon. My thoughts do pop out so. ’ Well, then, I am not like you; I will speak plainly. Some day when I am Mrs. Doctor Durham you will come and stay with me.” “I hope we shall never be parted, Luce,” said Aube gravely, and her beautiful eyes grew dreamy with a far-off look. “But is it not idle to make all these plans? As Sister Elise says, our future will be planned for us. But come what may, no future can be more happy and peaceful than our life has been here.” “N—o,” said Luce; “but haven’t you felt it very dull sometimes?” “I think not. No.” “Now come, confess; haven’t you ever longed to go out and see Paris?" “Never.” “Never thought how nice it would be to go to parties and balls?” “No,” said Aube, smiling. “The only longing I have had has been to see mamma again.” "Again. You do recollect her, then?” “As one recalls a dream,” said Aube thoughtfully. “It is all misty and indistinct. I was so very young.” “I wonder you remember anything,” said Luce, looking wondering!/ at the beautiful, thoughtful face before her. “But I do remember just faintly a face bent over me, and long dark hair brushing against my cheeks as I was kissed. It was a face as beautiful as the face of St. Agnes in the large room.” “Yes, your mother,” said Luce, resting her hand upon her friend’s arm. “She must be very beautiful.” '“I suppose so,” continued Aube, dreamily. Then, with her face growing suddenly animated, “I can recollect a black face With white teeth. Whoever it was, used to sing to me. I can almost remember the air she sang.” “That must have been your black nurse,” said Luce. “Yes, and there were flowers, great scarlet and yellow flowers, with which I used to play.® Ah, Luce, dear, when I talk to you like fhis how it al) seems to come back; but somehow I can’t recall coming here. There seems to be something black like a dark curtain coming down, and I can see nothing more.” “That must have been when you were ill,” cried Luce. “I remember Sister Elise telling me that you nearly died on the voyage over, and that you were quite a year growing strong.” “Yes,” said Aube, thoughtfully, once more; “ that must have been when I was ill, for the next thing I recollect is playing about here, and being led up and down, holding Sister Elise’s hand, or standing watching her feeding the fish.” “The Superior wishes to speak to you,” said a quiet, subdued voice, and the two girls faced round to see one of the Sisters standing behind them, with her hands crossed and her eyes red as if with weeping. “Sister Martha,” cried Aube quickly; “is anything wrong?” “Yes, yes, dear; very, very wrong," cried the sister, covering her face with her hands and bussting into a passionate fit of sobbing. “Don’t—don’t speak to 6 me. She is in her room. Go quickly. I—--1 ”

She turned and ran across the lawn where the others were seated, and as Aube hurried up to the door, fallowed by Luce, their minds conjuring up some sudden seizure and illness of one who had played the part of mother to them ever since they were little children, they glanced back, and could see that the bad news was being communicated to the other occupants of the garden, who were gathering excitedly, in a little group. “Sister Elsie is waiting for you,” said another of the sisters, meeting them in the great hall. ? “Is she very ill ?” cried Aube. A sweet, pensive face was turned to her wonderingly; then there was a quick shake of the head, Aube was warmly clasped to the nun’s breast, and tears were left upon her eheek as the sister hurried away. “Luce, what is the matter?’ whispered 'Aube, with her heart sinking. All this was so strange in that peaceful home. Lucie did not reply, but looked at her wildly, afid the next minute they were in a somber-looking room, with its subdued green lights, the windows being screened by the trees which grew close up to the panes. The old lady was seated by a table, on which lay a letter; and, dim as the room appeared to those who had just come out of the bright sunshine, both Luce and Aube could see that the Superior had been weeping. She drew herself up, though, with a display of calm dignity, as the door was closed, and signed to Aube to approach, motioning Luce to stay; but before Aube had half crossed the intervening space, the old lady had risen, advanced hurriedly to meet her, clasped the girl to , her breast, and sobbed aloud. “Oh, my child, my child. It has come at last.” A sensation of giddiness assailed Aube for the moment, but recovering herself , by an effort she clung to the old Superior. “Mamma! My mother! Sister Elise; she is dead?” “No, no, no, my child,” cried the old lady, excitedly. “No, no; don’t think that. There is her letter. She is alive and well. But do you not see, my child? It is 1 what I have been dreading so long.” “She has sent for me—to come?” cried Aube, joyously. “Yes,” said the old lady, gazing at her 1 sadly; and there was a suggestion of pain and reproach in the tone. “Yes, and you 1 are glad to see her once again—after all these years—after all these years.” The tears were coursing down Aube’s cheeks, and the eagerness had gone out ' of her voice as her arms stole round the old lady’s neck, and her warm soft lips ’ were pressed passionately to her brow, : her eyes, her cheeks. “No, no, you have been my mother so ‘ long,” she cried. “Don’t think me un- ' grateful and glad to leave you—you—all here. Sister Elsie, I have been so happy. It will break my heart.” She burst into a passion of sobbing now, 1 and clung wildly to the old lady, growing , moment by moment more hysterical till the Superior half drew, half carried her to the couch, where they sat dow’n. Aube ’ sinking on her knees beside her, to cling to ! her still, and hide her convulsed face in the old lady’s breast. Then silence once more reigned in the 1 dim, peaceful room, and Luce stood near the door, the tears stealing silently down ! her cheeks as she watched the group where Aube’s bosom still heaved and fell, j and a sob escaped from time to time as, scarcely less agitated, Sister Elsie held the weeping girl tightly to her, and rested 1 her pale old cheek upon her rich, dark ‘ clustering hair. “Hush, hush, my darling,” she seemed ( to coo over Aube. “It will be a bitter parting for us all; but we must not murmur. It is quite right, and I am glad ( now you have sent a sweet feeling of , joy through my heart, for I know how dearly you love us all. There will be ( many tears shed to-day, Aube; but my ( joy will be theirs as well. For it is right ) and good and holy. There have been , times when, in spite of the ample funds j your dearest mother has sent so regular- ( ly all these long years, I have dared to i think that she could not love you very 1 much, but now I know. She tells me in , her letter, in which all a mother's pas- j sionate love stands out, how she has . borne and wept and mourned to be sep- ] arated so long, but that it was your ( father’s wish, almost his dying command, j that you, Aube, should be sent to his na- 8 tive land to be educated and taught, as you could not be in that half savage j place. She says, too, something that , from her generous payments I could , never have imagined, that she is com- ( paratively poor, and she has been com* , pelled to work and struggle for th* income to make you the lady es whom' her dear husband w-ould have beefl'proud.’ (To be continued.) < Taxing the Bachelor. 1 From early days republics gener Jly < have been rather hard on bachel >rs. 1 The wise Plato condemned the simple > men to a fine, and in Sparta they wCre J driven at stated times to the Templd of 1 Hercules by the women, who there di 11- ! ed and castigated them in true militi ry j style. The ancient Romans, too, w rq i severe with their bachelors, who w re 1 made to pay heavy fines. Again, In 1 he 1 time of Augustos, all other things be! ag 1 equal, the married men were prefer! ;d , to the single meu for public offices. I ie f Roman who had three children was x- 1 empted from personal taxes, which ■ ; ie < bachelors had to pay. Coming to m< re 1 recent times, we have several instain es ' of a like kind recorded. In the Frei rh ' settlement of Canada, for exanq ( e, ( women were sent over after the in 'n, 1 and the single men, that they might >e ' forced to marry, were subjected so I heavy taxation and to restrictions m their trade and famvements general y. ' Those who married were dealt with, n 1 the other hand, in a generous s]»li L j Not only were they provided with ,a • good wife and a comfortable home, b it i they were rewarded according to t .e 1 number of their offspring. About tie ' close of the seventeenth century, t ;e ' local authorities at Eastham, In Masi *. J chusetts, voted that every unmarrl >d j man In the township should kill f dr , blackbirds or three crows yearly is i long aa he remained slugtb, product .g 11 the scalps in proof. In Maryland, hi If 1 a century later, the colonial assenit ly 1 imposed a tax of five shillings yeai ly j upon all bachelors over 30—as well widowers without children—who w< e | possessed of S3OO. Clearly, the fl i has always been recognized that t ’« { prosperity of a country depends up \ its married citizens.

TALMAGE’S SERMON. HE PREACHES ON THE SACRfs FICE OF ABRAHAM. •‘The Lamb of God Who Takes Away the Sins of the World”—A Remarkably Powerful and Clear Bible Story —Abraham and Isaac. » Lesson of a Rescue. In his sermon last Sunday Rev. Dr. Talmage chose for his subject Abraham’s supreme trial of faith and the angelic rescue of Isaac from being offered by his father as a sacrifice. The text was Genesis xxii., 7, “Behold the fire and the wood, but where is the lamb?” Here are Abrahtim and Isaac, the one a,kind, old, gracious, affectionate father, the other's brave, obedient, religious son. From his bronzed appearance you can tell that this son has been much in the fields, and from his shaggy dress you know that he has been watching the herds. The mountain air has painted his cheek rubicund. He is 20 or 25, or, as some suppose, 33 years of age, nevertheless a boy, considering the length of life to which people lived In those times and the fact that a son never is anything but a boy to a father. I remember that my father used to come into the house when the children were home on some festal occasion and say, “Where are the boys?” although “the boys” were 25 and 30 and 35 years of age. So this Isaac is only a boy to Abraham, and this father’s heart is in him. It is Isaac here and Isaac there. If there is any festivity around the father’s tent, Isaac must enjoy it. It is Isaac’s walk and Isaac’s apparel and Isaac’s manners and Isaac’s prospects and Isaac’s prosperity. The,father’s heartstrings are all wrapped around that boy, and wrapped again, until nine-tenths of the old man’s life is in Isaac. I can just imagine how lovingly and proudly he looked at his only son. A Burnt Offering. Well, the dear old man had borne a great deal of trouble, and it had left its mark upon him. In hieroglyphics of Wrinkle the story was written from forehead, to chin. But now his trouble seems all gone, and we are*lad that he is very soon to rest forever. If the old man shall get decrepit, Isaac is strong enough to wait on him. If the father gets dim of eyesight. Isaac will lead him by the hand. If the father become destitute, Isaac will earn him bread. HoW glad we are that the ship that has been in such a stormy sea is coming at last into the harbor. Are you not rejoiced that glorious old Abraham is through with his troubles? No, no! A thunderbolt! From that clear eastern sky there drops into that father’s tent a voice with an announcement enough to turn black hair white and to stun the patriarch into instant annihiliation. God said, “Abraham!” The old man answered, “Here I am.” God said to him, “Take thy son, thy only son Isaac, whom thou lovest, and get thee into the land of Moriah and offer him there as a burnt offering.” In other words, slay him, cut his body into fragments, put the fragments on the wood, set fire to the wood and let Isaac’s body be consumed to ashes. “Cannibalism! Murder!” said some one. “Not so,” said Abraham. I hear him soliloquize: “Here is the boy on whom I have depended. Oh, how I loved him! He was given in answer to prayer, and now must I surrender him ? O Isaac, my sen! Isaac, how shall I part with you? But, then, it is always safer to do as God asks me to. I have been in dark places before, and God got me out. I will implicitly do as God has told me, although it is very dark. I can’t see my way, but I know God makes no mistakes, and to him I commit myself and my darling son.” Early in the morning there is a stir around Abraham’s tent. A beast of burden is fed and saddled. Abraham makes no disclosure of the awful secret. At the break of day he says: “Come, come, Isaac, get up! We are going off on a two or three days’ journey." I hear the ax hewing and splitting amid the wood until the sticks are made the right length and the right thickness, and then they are fastened on the beast of burden. They pass on—there are four of them—Abraham, the father; Isaac, the son, and two servants. Going along the road, I see Isaac looking up into his father’s face and saying: “Father, what is the matter? Are you not well? Has anything happened? Are you tired? Lean on my arm.” Then, turning around to the servants, the son says, “Ah, father is getting old, and he has had trouble enough in other days to kill him!” The Day of the Tragedy. The third morning has come, and it is the day of the tragedy. The two servants are left the beast of burden, while Abraham and his son Isaac, as was the custom of good people in those times, went up on the hill to sacrifice to the Lord. The wood is taken off the beast’s back and put on Isaac’s back. Abraham has in one hand a pan of coals or a lamp, and in the other a sharp, keen knife. Here are all the applicance for sacrifice, you say. No, there is one thing wanting—there is no victimno pigeon, or heifer or lamb. Isaac, not knowing that he is to be the victim, looks up into his father’s face and asks a question which must have cut the old man to the bone—“My father!” The father said, “My son Isaac, here I am.” The son said, “Behold the fire and the wood, but where is the lamb?” The father’s lip quivered, and his heart fainted, and his knees knocked together, and his entire body, mind and soul shiver in sickening anguish as he struggles to gain equipoise, for he does not want to break down. And then he looks into his son’s face, with a thousand rushing tendernesses, and says, “My son, God will provide himself a lamb.” The twain are now-at the foot of the hill, the place which is to be famous for a most transcendent occurrence. They gather some stones out of the field and build an altar three or four feet high. Then they take this wood off Isaac’s back and sprinkle it over the stones, so as to help and invite the flame. The altar is done —it is all done. Isaac has helped to build it With his father he has discussed whether the top of the table is even and whether the wood is properly prepared. Then there is a pause. The son looks around to see if there is not some living animal that can be caught and butchered for the" Offering. Abraham tries to choke down his fatherly feelings and suppress his grief, in l order that he may break to his son the terrific news that he is to be the victim. Ah! Isaac never looked more beautiful than on that day to his father. As the old man ran his emaciated fingers through his son’s hair he said to himself: “How shall I give him up? What will his mother say 'when I come back without my boy? I thought he would have been the comfort

; ll,r 1,1 ' ' . 1 ■ i ! _ - " 1 of my Reclining days. I thought he would have been the hope of ages to come. Beautiful and loving and yet to die under my own hand. O God, ie there not some other sacrifice that will do? Take my life and spare his! Pour out my blood and save Isaac for his mother and , the world!" But this was an inward struggle. The father controls his filings and looks into his son’s face and says, “Isaac, must I tell you all?” His son said: “Yes, father. I thought you had something on your mind. Tell it.” The father said, "My son Isaac, thou art the lamb!" “Oh,” you say, “why didn’t that young man, if he was 20 or 30 years of age, smite into the dust his infirm father? He could have done it.” Ah! Isaac knew by this time that the scene was typical of a Messiah who was to .come. and so he made no struggle. They fell on' each other’s necks and wailed out the parting. Awful and matchless scene of the wilderness. The rocks echo back the breaking of their hearts. The cry: “My son! My son!” The answer: “My father! My father!” The Arm of God. Do not compare this, as some people have, to Agamemnon, willing to offer up his daughter, Iphigenia, to plase the gods. There is nothing comparable to this wonderful obedience to the true God. You know that victims for sacrifice were always bound, so that they might not struggle away. Rawlings, the martyr, when he was dying for Christ’s sake, said to the blacksmith who held the manacles, “Fastens those chains tight now, for my flesh may struggle mightily.” So Isaac’s arms are fastened, his feet are tied. The old man, rallying all his strength, lifts him on a pile of wood. Fastening a thong on one side of the altar, he makes it span the body of Isaac, and fastens the thong at the other side the altar, and another thong, and another thong. There is the lamp flickering in the wind, ready to be put under thjj brushwood of the altar. There is the knife, sharp and keen. Abra-ham—-struggling with his mortal feelings on the one side and the commands of God on the other—takes that kipfe, rubs the flat of it on the palm of his hand, cries to God for help, comes up to the side of the altar, puts a parting kiss on the brow of his boy, takes a message from him for mother and home, and then, lifting the glittering weapon for the plunge of the death stroke—his muscles knitting for the work—the hand begins to descend. It falls! Not on the heart of Isaac, but on the arm of God, who arrests the stroke, making the wilderness quake with the cry: “Abraham! Abraham! Lay not thy hand upon the lad nor do him any harm!” What is this sound back in the woods! It is a crackling as of tree branches, a bleating and a struggle. Go, Abraham, and see what it is. Oh, it was a ram that, going through* the woods, has its crooked horns fastened and entangled in the brushwood and could not get loose, and Abraham seizes it gladly and quickly unloosens Isaac from the altar, puts the ram on in his place, sets the lamp under the brushwood of the altar, and as the dense smoke of the sacrifice begins to rise the blood rools down the sides of the altar and drops hissing into the fire, and I hear the words, “Behold the Lamb of God who takes away the sins of the world.” Well, what are you going to get out of this? There is an aged minister of the gospel. He says: “I should get out of it that when God tells you to do a thing, whether it seems reasonable to you or not, go ahead and do It. Here Abraham couldn’t have been mistaken. God didn’t speak so indistinctly that it was not certain whether he called Sarah or Abimelech or somebody else, but with divine articulation, divine intonation, divine emphasis, he said, ‘Abraham!’ Abraham rushed blindly ahead to do his duty, knowing that things would come out right Likewise do so yourselves. There is a mystery of your life. There is some burden you have to carry. You don’t know why God has put it on you. There is some persecution, some trial, and you don’t know why God allows it. There is a work for you to do, and you have not enough grace, you think, to do it. Do as Abraham did. Advance, and do your whole duty. Be willing to give up Isaac, and perhaps you will not have to give up anything. ‘Jehovah-jireh’—the Lord will provide.” A capital lesson this old minister gives us. God Will Provide. Out yonder in. his house is an aged woman. The light of heaven in her face, she is half way through the door; she has her hand on the pearl of the gate. Mother, what would you get out of this subject? “Oh,” she says, “I would learn that it is in the last pinch that God comes to the re lief. You see, the altar was ready, and Isaac was fastened on it, and the knife was lifted, and just at the last moment God broke in and stopped proceedings. So it has been in my life of seventy years. Why, sir, there was a time when the flour was all out of the house, and I set the table at noon and had nothing to put on it, but five minutes of 1 o’clock a loaf of bread came. The Lord will provide. My son was very sick, and I said: ‘Dear Lord, you don’t mean to take him away from me, do you? Please, Lord, don’t take him away. Why, there are neighbors who have three and four sons. This is my only son, this is my Isaac. Lord, you won’t take him away from me, will you?' But I saw he was getting worse and worse all the time, and I turned round and prayed, until after awhile I felt submissive, and I could Say, ‘Thy will, O Cord, be done!’ The doctors gave him up, and we all gave him up. And, as was the custom in those times, we had made the grave clothes, and we were whispering about the last exercises when I looked, and I saw some perspiration on his brow, showing that the fever had broken, and he spoke to us sb naturally that I knew he was going to get well. He did get well, and my son Isaac, whom I thought was going to be slain and consumed of disease, was loosened from that altar. And, bless your souls, that’s been so for seventy years, and if my voice were not so weak, and if I could see better, I could preach to you younger people a sermon, for though I can’t see much I can see this: Whenever you get into a tough place, and your heart is breaking, if you will look a little farther into the woods you will see, caught in the branches, a substitute and a deliverance. ‘My son, God will provide himself a lamb.’ ’’ Thank you, mother, for that short sermon. I could preach back to you for a minute or two and say, never do you fear. I wish I had half as good a hope of heaven as you have. Do not fear, mother. Whatever happens, no harm will ever happen to ybu. I was going up a long flight of stairs, and I saw an aged woman, very decrepit and with a cane, creeping on up. She made but very little progress, and I felt very exuberant, and I said to her, “Why, mother, that is ho way to go up stairs,” and J threw my arms around her

and carried her up and put her down oB > f ; the landing at the top of the stairs. Shß said: “Thank you, thank you. lam verM. thankful.” Oh, mother, when you geMsE*® through this life’s work and you want tMggu go up stairs and rest in the good plac jEffl that God has provided for you, you wiO not have to climb up—you will not havSHi to crawl up painfully. The two arms thaKgj® were stretched on the cross will be around you and you will be hoisted with tKg|| glorious life beyond all weariness and aIH struggle. May the God of AbrahamJancß||| Isaac be with you until you see the on the hilltopp. Typical of Jesus. Now, that aged minister has made suggestion and this aged woman made a suggestion. I will make a gestion—lsaac going up the hill makesHH| me think of the great sacrifice. Isaac,■|]| the only son of Abraham. Jesus, the onlyMIE son of God. On those two “onlys” IMH build a tearful emphasis. O Isaac! OH|l| Jesus! But this last sacrifice was a tremendous one. When the knife wasßg| lifted over Calvary, there was no voice that cried “Stop!” and no hand arrested o it. Sharp, keen and tremendous, it cutfl down through nerve and artery until blood sprayed the faces of the execu-■..‘fc tioners and the midday sun dropped a of cloud over its face because it could not endure the spectacle. O Isaac of Mount M|| Moriah! O Jesus of Mount Calvary! Better could God have thrown away into anihilation a thousand worlds than to have sacrificed his only Sqn. It was uot one of ten sons—it was his only Son. If he had not given up him, you and I would have perished.' “God so loved the world IH| that he gave his only”—I stop there, not because I have forgotten the quotation, but because I want to think. “God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlast- ■ ing life.” Great God, break my heart at M|| the thought of that sacrifice. Isaac only, typical of Jesus the only. 9| You see Isaac going up the hill and H 9 carrying the wood. O Abraham, why not take the load off the boy? If he is going to die so soon, why not make his last hours easy? Abraham knew that in carrying that wood up Mount Moriah Isaac was to be a symbol of Christ carrying his BH own cross up Calvary. I do not know how heavy that cross was—whether it was made of oak or acacia or Lebanon MB cedar. 1 supposb it may have weighed 100 or 200 or 300 pounds. That was the lightest part of the burden. All the sins and sorrows of the world were wound around that cross. The heft of one, the heft of two, worlds —earth and hell were on his shoulders. O Isaac, carrying the wood of sacrifice up Mount Moriah. O Jesus, carrying the wood of sacrifice up -9 Mount Calvary, the agonies of earth and B hell wrapped around that cross. I shall B never see the heavy load on Isaac’s back B that I shall not think of the crushing load B on Christ’s back. For whom that load? fB For you. For you. For me. For me. ■'ifl Would that all the tears that we have" B wept over our sorrows had been saved un- B til this morning, -and that we might now B pour them out on the lacerated back and M feet and heart of the Son of God. B You say: “If this young man was 20 or B 30 years of age, why did not he resist? B Why was it not Isaac binding Abraham B instead of Abraham binding Isaac? muscle in Isaac’s arm was stronger than B the muscle in Abraham’s withered arm. B No young man 25 years of age would B submit to have his father fasten him to a ■ pile of wood with intention of burning.” ■ Isaac was a willing sacrifice, and so a ■ type of Christ who willingly came to save, B th<r world. If all the armies of heaven '>B had resolved to force Christ out from the B gate, they could not have done it. Christ fl was equal with God. If all the battal- B ions of glory had armed themselves and fl resolved to put Christ forth and make him fl come out and save this world, they could ■ not have succeeded in it. With one B stroke he would have toppled over angelic fl and archangelic dominion. ■ A Willing Sacrifice. fl But there was one thing that the om- I nipotent Christ could not stand. Our I sorrows mastered him. 'He could not bear I to see the world die without an offer of . I pardon and help, and if all heaven had fl armed itself to keep him back, if the gates fl of life had been bolted and double barred, I Christ would have flung the everlasting 1 doors from their hinges and would have I sprung forth, scattering the hindering hosts of heaven like chaff before the whirlwind, as he cried: “Lo, I come to V suffer! Lo, I come to die!” Christ—a willing sacrifice. Willing to take Bethlehem humiliation and sanhedrin outrage and whipping post maltreatment and Golgotha butchery. Willing to suffer. Willing to die. Willing to save. How does this affect you? Do not your very best impulses bound out toward this painstaking Christ? Get down at his C feet, Oye people. Put your lips against the wound on his right foot and help kiss away the pang. Wipe the foam from his dying lip. Get under the cross until you feel the7>aptism of his rushing tears. Take him into your heart, with warmest love and undying enthusiasm. By your resistances you have abused him long enough. Christ is willing to save you. Are you willing to be saved? It seems to me as if this moment were throbbing with the invitations of an. all compassionate God. K I have been told that the cathedral of St. Mark stands in a quarter in the center of the city of Venice, and that when the clock strikes 12 at noon all the birds from the city and the regions round about the city fly to the square and settle down. It came in this wise: A large hearted woman passing one noonday across the square saw some birds shivering in the cold, and she scattered some crumbs bf, bread among them. The next day at the same hour she scattered more crumbs of * bread among them, and so on from year “ to year until the day of her death. In her will she bequeathed a certain amount of money to keep up the same practice, a«X . 1 now, at the first stroke of the bell at noou, -| tho birds begin to come there, and when' the clock has struck 12 the square is covered with them. How beautifully sugges- g tive. Christ comes out to feed thy soul to-day. The more hungry you feel yourselves to be the better it is. It is noon, and the gospel clock strikes 12. Come in flocks! Come in droves to the window! All the air is filled with the liquid chime: Come! Come! Come! Bullets. At ft recent test with the new Lebel C carbines, In France, a bullet discharged r at an advancing bull is said to have struck the animal’s shoulder and reappeared at the tall, completely traversing Its body; the large bonee were pleroed with round holes without being splintered. It Is stated by a military authority present at the time that the bullet wonld have passed through eight men Id a row.