Decatur Democrat, Volume 39, Number 43, Decatur, Adams County, 10 January 1896 — Page 7

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(CHAPTER XVIII.' That night was the bitterest of all to Aube. Her heart had been full of regrets for the past, she had felt a cruel pang at the thought of losing so true a friend as Lucie, and the color had mounted to her bheeks ns she had recalled her lust meeting with Paul, and she had asked herself Whether she loved him, as she knew he tnust love her. But she had shrunk from this inquisition, not daring to look into her heart of hearts lest she should find the truth and suffer more bitterly than she Buffered now. By a strong effort of will she had again that day to thrust the past further away from her, to forget all in her career, and strive to be the loving daughter for whom Nousie had looked so long. Sa intone had come there, had had that interview with her mother, in which with its warm glow reflected to her own she had seen her mother's love for her expand, she had realized her Belf-dt-ujal ami willingness to sacrifice herself that her child might rise to a different grade; and in those moments she had felt that it would be easy to return her love as a devoted daughter, and that happinttess was not impossible even there. Then Saintone had received his rebuff, and in spite of the pain and excitement of the scene, Aube hud felt her heart upon her life when the clouds had once more gathered round her. Paul had come, and she had seen the hope and love which beamed in her mother's eyes darken in despair. Paul, the man she knew now that she loved, the man who had followed her even there, had looked with horror upon her home and treated her longsuffering mother with bitter, cruel contempt. How that evening passed she could not tell. Paul and his friend had been there all that time, and they had gone at last, after Paul had said words to her which she could not recall; leaving her, as it were, stunned by her position, and Nousie gazing at her from time to time with a mournful, despairing look in her eyes which cut her to the heart. But she could not speak, she could not even try to comfort her, and with her breast overburdened with the chaincd-up loving words she longed to speak, their parting that night was constrained and cold * Cherubine had gone also to her room, and the place was silent as Nousie stole jnto the nest she had prepared with such Joving hands for her child. A bitter resentment filled her heart, and she looked angrily around in the darkness. But this passed away, and was succeeded by a painful sadness which she did nothing to combat, and she slowly and silently crept about the room with her tears falling fast, to lay her hand softly and lovingly upon the book Aube had been readIng,. upon her work. which she raised and kissed, and then upon the keys of the piano, one of which gave out a low. faint note. ° “My darling! My own husband’s very own!” she sighed as She stood at last .with her hands presed to her brow. Then sinking on her knees and closing her hands she uttered a low wail. “George, dearest,” she cried in a low, painful voice; “she loves him and he loves her, there is no room in her breast for me. I have done all you wished, and the world is empty to me now. Take me to you, darling, and let me die." There was silence” hand in hand with the darkness now in the little room, and misery and despair seemed to combine to crush the wretched woman down. ' “It would be so easy," she said—"like sleeping to wake no Riore, and she would be happy then. He could take her back with him to the other land. All 1 have is hers! She would soon forget me—the servant who stands between her and her love. So easy!” She started to her feet full of energy' dnee more “No, not yet,” she whispered. "What did Ida son say? —'sAd those men away, while their lives are safe.’ With me gone he might, come, and she would be so helpless." She stood gazing away into the darkness, picturing her child’s future, ami realizing how her help was needed for her protection. “Not yet, George,” she said, nt last, in a low, sweet voice. “Not yet. Yes. she shall go with him. for she loves him—back to the other land. It will only be another parting, as I sent her once before And then She drew a long breath, and there was firmness and decision in her next movements, ns she Went to' the door, but paused with her hand resting on the side. , “Like his father,” she said. “He might kill him or—the Voudoux ” “Ab,” Blie ejaculated, with her Kps - apart. Then with a sigh of relief, “Perhaps I am as strong there as he. Yes, she loves him. Back to the other land, and then—and then—George, dearest, 1 am weary now; lake me to you. I want to see you once again." She crept to her room, but turned and listened by that which had been prepared with loving care for Aube;, and after a iittle hesitation she opened the door silently, and a faint light illumined her sad face, ag at a glance she saw that the bed ,was untenanted, and that Aube was kneeling by ji-chair with her face buried I , in her hands. I Nousie crept in silently till she could | stand with her hands extended over her I child’s head as if longing to rest them j, there, but. pot caring to disturb her, and she stood in this attitude for some miuUtes, even her lips pouting as she bent with the gesture of kissing the .T head so-near. jj|yab|gleep, dearest?” she whispered at to hey feet, startled by the Infuriated, an(l flun( , |j er ftnns about him—he’s Louisville Post.

Nousie’s neck, nestling on her breast as if to find rest and protection there. “Not in bed, dear?” said Nousie. softly stroking back the girl’s disheveled hair. “No, I could not sleep.” “Praying?” said Nousie, softly. “Yes, mother, for strength. The pain is so hard to bear.” “So hard to bear,” said Nousie, echoing her words, as she raised her face and gazed tenderly in her eyes, “bo hard to bear,” she said again. “And you love him. Aube—you love him, Lucie's brother, who has followed you across the sea?” "Mother!” cried Aube. “Yes,” Baid Nousie, softly. “You love him and he loves you.” “He told me he loved me.” “And you?” Aube looked at her wildly, and then with a passionate burst of sobbing she buried her face in her mother’s breast. Nousie caressed her gently far a few minutes, and then said softly: “Well —he loves you—and be has come to take you back.” She uttered a low sigh, which seemed torn in agony from her heart, and then said gently: “I am rich, dearest, and it is Fate. He shall take you back. You will be happy, and I can go on and wait.” Aube raised her face, and shook back her long loose hair as, with dilating eyes, she gazed tn her mother’s face, nnd'for a few moments there was silence. “Go!” faltered Aube, at last, “back to Paris—leave you?” > “Yes, dearest—he loves you—you promised him yous love once there?” “No, no, no!" cried Aube, wildly. "But you love him, my own?” “Mother, I do not know,” cried’ Aube, wildly. "But go with him—leave you? It is impossible. I could not go.” “Yes; you could go,” said Nousie, softly, and with smiling, loving face, though every word she uttered gave her an agonizing pain. “It is to make you happy, dearest, that I have lived all these years alone, and worked for that.” “Yes,” cried Aube, excitedly, “I did not see it all at first. I know it now. Leave you, mother, knowing all this; what you have done for me—you think I would go. Have I not knelt and prayed for strength —for forgetfulness—that all this might be past? Mother, it is cruel of him. Why has he come to step between us now?” “He loves you.’ T “No, no," cried Aube, frantically, “he cannot love me, or he would love you, too, my own patient, long-suffering mother. He love me and dare to speak of you as he did to-day! Mother, do you think my heart did not bleed for you—that I did not suffer as I saw you suffer then?" “Aube! My child!" panted Nousie, hoarsely. “Mother, yes. I love him; but it cannot be. Leave you? I would sooner die!” “Don’t —don’t tempt me, Aube,” whispered Nousie, as she tightened her grasp and her fingers enlaced as if to struggle with some one who was trying to tear her child away. “I will give everything, and you shall go back with him, while I stay and think of my own child, who came to me for awhile in answer to my prayer. Yes, dear, you shall go back—go back soon. But don’t tempt me. I cannot bear it, I am so weak." "Tempt you, mother?” “With words like those again—those words you spoke to-day before he came. It is to ni,akc you happy. You shall go.” Aube uttered a low, piteous sigh, and tightened- her arms about her mother's neck, as for some minutes they remained clasped in a loving embrace. Nousie broke the silence, and there was a curious excitement in her utterance as she exclaimed: “Soon; you shall go soon, you could never be happy here. I <Bd not know before, But I did it in my love for you, my own.” ~ “And you did well,” said Aube, tenderly, as she now led her mother to a couch./ “It would break my heart and I shourt die." / "Aube,” panted Nousie. "Yes. Paul will go back and forget me. I could not love hint now. It is all past. Mother, dearest, I say again all that I said to-day. I love you. and you alone. No one shall come between us now.” “Aube, my darling," cried Nousie. as with a fierce strength she dragged her child across her breast and held her tightly there as if she were a babe once more. “I cannot bear it. Don’t leave me. or I shall die.” “Lease you. no,” whispered Aube, as she clasped her neck and nestled nearer and nearer still. "Yes —like that." whispered “Like yon lay that day When, wild with despair. I was dying. They had taken your father from me. they had killed him before my eyes, and I was dying, too. I tried hard to die that 1 might go to him; and Cherubine, as 1 was gliding fast away into the silent land, came and laid you in my arms. The touch made me start, and your little hands caught at me and played about my fac.e, and your tiny lips kissed my cheek, and then you uttered a cry to me. and that cry told me that I must live—for you. dearest.” "Mother!” sighed Aube; and her lips were pressed upon the trembling woman's cheek. _. * “And I lived—for you. Aube, my darling, I see nil now so plainly; but love me as I love you, my own—my own.” “Mother!” whispered Aube, and her voice Thrilled her to whom she clung. “It was to make you happy-tliat I sent you,,away: and all through those years I waited, wondering whether I could live the time through till yon came back to me —those years, those long, weary years. Yes, I know,” she continued, with energy, "I am not worthy of yon, for I have grown coarse and common; I. darling, who was once nearly as beautiful*as you, and he toyed me—your father, who (save

you life. But I never thought Os that—how plain I grew—for J worked and worked to get money—for you, dearest—to make you what you are. And— Aube, my child, you will stay?" “Mother, I will never leave you.” “Hah!” cried Nousie, hysterically, “and you will stay. Aube, my child, I can work for you, and I will try so hard to make you happy. That woman, Madame Saintone, and her daughter, with their scorn and pity. They shall envy you—you, my child. And you will stay?" “Give me your dear love,” said Aube, softly, “and help me to forget the past.” “And you will be happy then?” “And I shall be happy then.” whispered Aube. “Mother, dearest, I am happy now.” The hours glided by as they sat upon that couch, locked in each other's arms, the bright sun filling the room at last as if with hope and strength in answer to Aube’s prayer. CHAPTER XIX. Aube was sleeping peacefully a little later on, and Nousie stole away with a look of pride and content upon her countenance, till Bhe heard voices outside, and looking out, saw Cherubine in eager conversation with a couple of the blacks living near. Their talk was very earnest, and Nousie trembled slightly, but she drew herself up and waited till the woman entered. “What is it?” She asked. The answer she received made her change color and glance toward Aube’s room. “Don’t let them, mistress," whispered Cherubine, with her face looking leaden more than black, and she burst into tears. “Are you sure?” said Nousie. "Yes; they were waiting for them.” “And followed them home?” “Yes, mistress, but don’t let them, pray, pray.” "Hush, hush!” whispered Nousie. "Don’t speak—don’t look. I shall do something to stop it. It shall not be done.” she added, energetically. Cherubine’s face assumed its wonted aspect directly, and Nousie stood thinking for a few moments wondering how it would be best to proceed to avert a danger which she felt was grave, and which she saw would call for all the influence she possessed. She. had formed no-rrinns-wherr'Ailbe came down a couple of hours later to find her looking abstracted and troubled, for Saintone’s threat seemed to ring in her ears, and she knew that he had an influence* to back him which was not bis a month or two before. Breakfast was hardly over, and the trouble was almost forgotten in her new-ly-found happiness when a fresh complication arose in the shape of a messenger bearing a letter. Nousie took it and read it hastily, her countenance changing as she found a postcript in a man's hand whose imixirt she grasped at once. The words were: “Remember what I said. She must come.” "Mother, dearest,” cried Aube, “why do you look like that? Are you ill?" “Ill? No, dear; only a little vexed. It is a letter from Madame Saintone, begging that we will not refuse her this time, and that you will go up there to-day.” “No. no; it is impossible,” said Aube. Then hastily, “Mother dear, you must be ill.” "No —oh, no-; I was only thinking that perhaps ” She stopped after speaking in a hesi* fating way. “Perhaps what, dear?” “It might be right to be friendly with Madame Saintone, and go there for an hour or two.” Aube was startled by this change of front, and gazed wonderingly at her mother, whose lips parted to falter forth some explanation, when Aube turned crimson and then white, for Paul’s voice was heard inquiring for Madame Dulau, and directly after he and Bart were shown in. (To be continued.) In Favor of Bloomers. A San Francisco merchant, who has been looking at the daily swarm of bicyclers on the boulevard and in Central Park, declares that he is astonished at the popular disturbance over the bloomer question in New York. “Why, you don’t know anything about bloomers here,” he says. “Not one in a hundred of the women who use wheels here is wearing the mannish garment. It is exactly the opposite in San Francisco. Not more than one in fifty of the wheeling women wear skirts when riding. Then, again? I notice that you inWgh against, bloomers on the score uTjpfedmdy. Weil, in San Francisco MhpWtot is on other foot. ' Our mdftr|modest women say that delicacy is what has forced them into bloomers. You see, we suffer from such constant and strong winds up ou the heights and in the park by the Golden Gate, where alone there is level ground for wheeling, that skirts are Impossible garments. They cannot be kept down, and therefore the women have to wear something that will not be blown about. We have become so accustomed to them that we no longer take sides upon the question of their fitness. Instead, we are unanimous in our admiration of a pretty woman in a stylish and well-fitted bloomer costume.”New York Sun. Salisbury’s Carelessness in Dress. . It is impossible to conceive a more_ Dlidly-grbomed man than Lord Salisbury. In town he wears the most shocking of hats and the most disrep-utable-looking of long black dusty frock edats, with a tie all awry and a crumpled shirt, his waistcoat as often as not buttoned askew. His trousers, by reason of their shortness and their fit, would be .the despair of any fashionable tailor. At Dieppe, where he is now staying, he is accustomed to drive about with an old plaid shawl over his shoulders, a black soft hat crushed down over his brows, and a briarwood pipe between his Ups. which he rarely opens to talk when out of doors, being noted for his taciturnity. It is said that cut flowers will keep very fresh If a small pinch of nitrate of ’ potash, or common saltpetre, is put in the water In which they stand. The ends of the stems should be cut off a little every day to keep open the absorbing pores. 1 . •

TALMAGE’S SERMON. HE PREACHES ON THE RETURN OF THE PRODIGAL. New Light* on a Familiar Story—The Richest Ring Ever Flashed on the Vision Is That Which Our Father Puts on a Forgiven Soul. A Ring on Hia Hand. In his sermon Sunday Rev. Dr. Talmage took for hi* subject the return of tlie prodigal son. The text chosen was Luke xv., 22,. “Put a ring on his hand.” I will not rehearse the familiar story of flu* fast young num of the parable. Yoq know what a splendid home he left. You know what a hard time he had. And you remember how after that season of vagabondage and prodigality lie resolved to go and weep out liis sorrows on the bosom of parental forgiveness. Well, there 1b great excitement one day in front of the door of the old farmhouse. The servants come rushing up and say: “What’s the matter? What 1b the matter?” But before they quite arrive the old man cries out: “Put a ring on his hand.” What a seeming absurdity! What can such a wretched mendicant as this fellow that is tramping on toward the house want with a ring? Oh, he is the prodigal son. No more tending of the swine trough! No more longing for the pods of the carob tree! No more blistered feet! Off with the rags! On with the robe! Out with the ring! Even so does God receive every one of us when we come back. There are gold rings, and pearl rings, and, emerald rings, and diamond rings, but the richest ling that ever flashed on the vision is that which our Father puts upon a forgiven soul. I know that the impression is abroad among some people that religion bemeans and belittles a man-; that it takes all the sparkle out of his soul; that he has to exchange a roistering independence for an ecclesiastical straitjacket. Not so. When a man becomes a Christian, he does not go down; he starts upward. Religion multiplies 1 by 10,000. Nay, the multiplier is in infinity. It is not a blotting out; it is a polishing, it is an if is an irradiation. When a man comes into the kingdom of God, he is not sent into a menial service, but the Lord God Almighty from the peaces of heaven calls upon the angels that wait upon the throne to fly and “put a ring on his hand.” In Christ are the largest liberty, and brightest joy, and highest honor, and richest adornment. “Put a ring on his hand.” A Ring of Adoption, I remark, in the first place, that when Christ receives a soul into his love he puts upon him the ring of adoption. While in my church in Philadelphia there came the representative of the Howard mission of New York. He brought with him eight or ten children of the street that he had picked up, and he was trying to find for tUem Christian homes, and as the little ones stood on the pulpit and sang our hearts melted within us. At the close of the services a great-hearted wealthy man came up and said, “I’ll take this little bright-eyed girl, and I’ll adopt her as one of my own children.” And he took her by the hand, lifted her into his carriage and went away. The next day, while we were in the church gathering up garments for the poor Os New York, this little child came back with a bundle under her arm, and -sh< said: “There’s my old dress. Perhaps some of the poor children would like, to Kave if," while she herself was in bright ami beautiful array, and those who more immediately examined her said she had a ring on her hand. It was a ring of adoption. There are a great many persons who pride themselves ou their ancestry, and they glory over the royal blood that pours through their arteries. In their line there was a lord, or a duke, or a prime minister, or a king. But when the Lord, our Father, puts upon us the ring of his adoption we become the children of the Ruler of all nations. “Behold what manner of love the Father hath bestowed upon us that we should be called the sons of God.” It matters not how poor our garments may be in this world, or how scant our bread, or how mean the hut we live in. if we have that ring of Christ’s adoption upon our hand, we are assured of eternal defenses. Adopted! Why, then, we are brothers and sisters to all the good of earth and heaven! We have the family name, the family dress, the family keys, the family wardrobe. The Father looks after us robes us, defends us, blesses us. We ha royal blood in our veins, and there arc crowns in our line. If we are his children, then princes and princesses. It is only a question of time when we get our coronet. Adopted! Then we have the family secrets. "The secret of the Lord is with them that fear him.” Adopted! Then we have the family inheritance, and in the day when our Father shall divide the riches of heaven we shall take our share of tlie mansions and palaces and temples. Henceforth let us boast no more of an earthly ancestry The insignia of eternal glory is our coat of arms. 1 This ring of' adoption puts upon us all honor and all privilege. Now we can take the words of Charles Wesley, that prince of hymnmakers, and sing:

“Come, let us join our friends above Who have obtained the prize. And on the eagle wings of love To joy celestial rise “I.et all the saints terrestrial sing With those to glory gone. For all the servants of our King In heaven and earth are one.” I have been told that when any of the members of any of the great secret societies of this country are in n distant city and are in any kind of trouble and are set upon by enemies they have oiily to give a certain signal, ami the members of that organization will flock around for defense. And when any man belongs to this great Christian brotherhood, if lie gets in trouble, in trial,.in persecution, in temptation, he has only to show this ring of Christ's adoption, and all the armed cohorts of heaven will come to his rescue. A, Marriage Ring. Still further; when Christ takes a soul into his love, he puts upon it a marriage ring. Now, that is not a whim of mine —Hosea ii., Ifi, "I will betroth thee unto me forever —ryea.T will betroth thee unto me in righteousness, a,nd in judgment, and in loving kindness, and in mercies. At the wedilhig altar the bridegroom puts n ring upon the hand of .the bride, signifying love and faithfulness. Trouble may conn* npon thelioitsehold, and the carpets may go. the pictuvx-s may go,„the piano puiy go—everything else may go. The last thing that goes is that nuirriago ring, for It is ebnsidered sn< red. In the burial hour It is withdrawn froiq the band and kept

in a casket, and sometime# the box Is opened on an anniversary day, and as you look at that ring you see under its arch a long procession of precious memories. Within the golden circle of that ring there is room for a thousand sweet recollections to revolve, and you think of the great contrast between the hour when, at the close of the “Wedding March,” under the flashing lights and amid the aroma of orange blossoms, you set that ring on the round finger of the plump hand, and that hour when, at the close of the exhaustive watching, when you knew that the soul had fled, you took from the hand, which gave back no responsive clasp, from that emaciated finger, tlie ring that she had worn so long and so well. On some aniversary day you take up that ring, and you repolish It until all the old luster comes back, and you can see in it the flush of eyes that lung ago ceased tb weep. Oh, it is not an unmeaning thing when I tell you that when Christ receives a soul into his keeping he puts on it a marriage ring! He endows you from tliat moment with all his wealth. Yon are one —Christ and the soul —one in sympathy, one in affection, one in hope. There is no power on earth or hell to effect a divorcement after Christ and tlie soul are united. Other kings have turned out their companions when they got weary of them and sjmt them adrift from the palace gate. Ahasuerus banished Vashti, Napoleon forsook Josephine, but Christ is tlie husband that ie true forever. Haying loved you once, he loves you to the end. Did'they not try to divorce* Margaret, the Scotch girl, from Jesus? They said: "You must give up your religion.” She said: “I can’t give np iny religion.” And so they took her down to the beach of the sea, and they drove in a stake at low water mark, and they fastened her to it, expecting that as the tide came up her faith would fall. The tide began to rise and came up higher and highter, and to the girdle, and to the lip, and in the last moment, just as the wave was washing her soul into glory, she shouted the praises of Jesus. Oh, no, you canont separate a soul from Christ! It is an everlasting marriage. Battle and storm and darkness cannot do it. It is too much exultation for a man, who is but dust, and ashes like myself, to cry out this moment, “I am persuaded that neither height nor depth nor principalities nor powers nor tilings — nofTElTigsTo~come, nor any other creature shall separate me from the love of God which is in Christ Jesus, my Lord!” Glory be to God that when Christ and the soul are married they are bound by a chain, a golden chain, if I might say go—a chain with one link, and that one link the golden ring of God's everlasting love. A Ring of Festivity. I go a step further and tell you tliat when Christ receives a soul into his love he puts on him the ring of festivity. You know that it has been the custom in all ages to bestow rings on very happy occasions. There is nothing more appropriate for a birthday gift than a ring You delight to bestow such a gift upon your children at such a'time. It means joy. hilarity, festivity. -AYell, when this old man of the text wanted to tell how glad he was that his boy had’got back, he expressed it in this way. Actually, before he ordered sandals to be put on his bare feet, before he ordered the fatted calf to be killed to appease the boy’s hunger, he commanded. "Put a ring on his hand.” Oh, it is a merry time when Christ and the soul are united! Joy of forgiveness! What a splendid thing it is to feel that all is right between my God and myself. What a glorious thing it is to have God just take up all the sins of my life and put them in one bundle, and then fling them’ into the depths of the sea, never to rise again, never to be talked of again. Pollution all gone; darknes all illumined; God reconciled; the prodigal home! “Put a ring on his hand!” ’ day I find happy Christian people.. Ffifid some of them with no second coat, some of them in huts and tenement houses, not one earthly comfort afforded them, and yet they are as happy as happy can lie. They sing "Rock of Ages” as no other people in the world sing it. They never wore any jewelry in their life but one gold ring, and that was the ring -of God’s undying affection. Oh. how happy religion makes us! Did it make you gloomy and sad? Did you go with your head cast down? I do not think you got religion, my brother. That is not the effect of religion. True religion is a joy. “Her ways are ways of pleasantness, and all her paths are peace.” Why, religion lightens all our burdens; it smooths all our way; it interprets all our sorrows; it changes the jar of earthlydiscord for the peal of festal bells. In f ront of the flaming furnace of trial it sets he forge on which scepters are hammered out. Would you not like this hour to come up from the swine feeding and try this religion. All the joys of heaven would come out and meet you, and God would cry from the throue, "Put a ring on his hand!” Uncertainty for Assurance. You are not happy. I see it. There is no peace, and sometimes you laugh when you feel a great deal more like crying. The world is a cheat. It first wears y’ou down with its follies; then it kicks you out into darkness. It comes back from the massacre of 1.000,000 souls to attempt the destruction of your soul to-day. No peace out of God, but here is the fountain that can shake the thirst. Here is the harbor where you can drop safe anchorage. , - Would you not like, I ask y6u— not perfunctorily, but as one brother might talk to another —would you not like to have a pillow of rest to put your head On? And would you not like, when "you retire at night, to feel that all is well, whether you wake up to-morrow morning at 6 o’clock or sleep the sleep that knows no waking? Would you not like to exchange this awful uncertainty about the future for a glorious assurance of heaven? Accept of the Lord Jesus to-day and all is on you way home some peril should cross the street and dash your life out. it would not hurt you. You would risf up immediately. You would stand in the celestial streets. You would be amid the great throng that forever worship and are forever happy. If this night some sudden disease should come upon you, it would not frighten you. If you knew you were going, you could give a calm farewell to your beautiful home on earth and know that you are going right into the companionship of those who hav.e already got beyond' the toiling and the weeping. You feel on Saturday night different from the way you feel any other night of the week. You come home from the bank, or the store. or’The oflie<n.and you say. “Well, now my week’s work'is done, and to-tnorrow Is Sunday.” It is a pleasant thought. There are refreshments and reconstruction in the very idea. Oh. how pleasant it will be if, when we get through the day*af life, and we go and lie down in.our bed of dust, we can realise, “Well,

now the work is nil done, and to-morrow is Sunday—an everlasting Sunday.” "Oh, when, thou city of my God, Shall I thy courts ascend, Where congrgations ne’er break up And Sabbaths have no end?” There are people in thin house to-day who are very near the eternal world. If you are Christians, I bld you be of good cheer. Bear,with you our congratulations to the bright city. Aged men, who will soon be gone, take with you dur love for our kindred in the better land, and when you see them tel) them that we are soon coining. Only a few more sermons to preach and hear; only u few more heartaches; only a few more toils; only a few more tears. And then—what an entrance* ing. spectacle will open before us! "Beautiful heaven, where all is light; Beau tis ill angels, clothed in white; Beautiful strains that never tire, Beautiful harps through all the choir; There shall I join the chorus sweet, Worshiping at the Savior's feet.” And so I approach you now with a general invitation, not picking out here and there a man, or here and there a woman, or here and there a child, but giving you nu unlimited invitation, saying. “Come, for all things are now ready.” We invite you to the warm heart of Christ and the inclosure of the Christian Church. I know a great many think that the church does not amount to much; that it is obsolete; that it did its work and is gone now, su far as all usefulness is concerned. It is the happiest place I have ever been in, except my own home. The One Teat. I know there are some people who say they are Christians who seem to get along without any help from others, and who culture solitary piety. They do not want any ordinances. Ido not belong to that class. I cannot get along without them. There are so many things in this world that take my attention from God and Christ and heaven that I want all the helps of all the symbols and of all the Christian associations, and I want around about me a solid phalanx of men who love God and keep his commandwents. Are there any here who would like to enter into that association? Then by a simple, childlike faith, apply for admission into the visible church, and you will be received. No questions asked aboutjypur -past histoi-y oF”present surroundings. Only one test—do you love Jesus? Baptism does not amount to anything, say a great many people, but the Lord Jesus declared, “He that believeth and is baptized shall be saved.” putting baptism and faith side by side. And an apostle declares, “Repent and be baptized every one of you.” Ido not stickle for any particular mode of baptism, but I put great emphasis on the fact that you ought to be baptized, yet no more emphasjs than the Lord Jesus Christ, the great Head.of the church, puts upon it. Some of you have been thinking *on this subject year after year. You have found out that this world is a poor portion. You want to be Christians, You have come almost into tlie kingdom of God, but there you stop, forgetful of the fact that to be almost saved is not to be saved at all. Oh. my brother, after having come so near to the door of mercy, if you turn back, you will never come at all. After all you have heard of the goodness of God. if you turn away and die, it will not.be because you did not have a good offer. "God's spirit will not always strive With hardened, self-destroying man. Ye who persist his love to grieve May never hear his voice again.” May God Almighty this hour move upon your soul and bring you back from the husks of the wilderness to the Father’s house, and set you at the banquet, and "put a ring on your hand.” Family Pride. The following story is told of the visit of Albert Edward. Prince of Wales, to the West when he was a lad. The royal party of tourists wefe entertained by Mr. Blank on his ranch. He was naturally anxious that they should fully enjoy the sport of the neighborhood. A fishing excursion was arranged for one day, and a-gruff old farmer promised that his nephew would provide bait for "th.e Englishmen,” of whose rank he was ignorant. Mr. Blank, it is said, sent for him the previous evening, and anxiously inquln ed: "Has your nephew brought the bait?’ “No.” “We want it by daylight.” “You’ll hev it,” calmly replied the old man. “This Is a matter of great importance. Are you sure that we shall have it?” "Didn’t Jabez give you his word?” “But how do I know he’ll keep It?’ said the uneasy host. "How do ye know?” said the farmer, sternly. "Because he’s a Pratt. None of the Pratts ever was known to tell n lie, an’ I reckon Jabez isn’t a-goln’ tn break the record." and he tramped off. "You must pardon the old man. your Grace.” Mr. Blank said, turning to the Duke of Newcastle, who was standing near by. "He does not know who you are.” "Pardon him? I call that very fine! Why should not the Pratts be proud of their honest blood, as well as the pel-ham-Cliutons?” (his own family). The daylight brought Jabez and the bait. sy England a delicate glass vase, Luck of Eden-hall." has been preserved with scrupulous care for centuries in consequence of a legend that when It is broken the family to which it belongs will perish also from among men. If every American family cherished, like the Pratts, a faith in the truth, or honesty, or of-their ancestors with n resolve like Jabbz. "never to break the record.” what a lightening and uplifting <>ur social life would follow! *> Descendants of Dante. A descendant of the famous poet Dante. Count Dante Serego-Alighiero, the mayor of Venice, died recently at his vilhi Gargagnano, near Verona. His family descends from tjie author of “La Divina Comedia” on the female side only. The last male desCeuihint of Dante, Pietro di Dante, died in the year 1547. His daughter was married tea Count Serbgo. of Verona, and he obtained the right to add his family name to that of his wife. The family of Serego-Alig-hieri is very numerous and wealthy, and most of,its. members live In the provInce of veiiegiu, : -