Decatur Democrat, Volume 40, Number 3, Decatur, Adams County, 3 April 1896 — Page 7

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CHAPTER X. A few days after that mysterious letter ad been thrown in at Lady Constance’s (Mroom window, Feveral presented himelf at the door of the duke’s house and ent in his card. The duke was iu his library, seated t a large writing desk. When the strangr was ushered in he looked up quickly nd frowned. • “Sir,” he said, haughtily, “I do not now you.” “Pardon, me,” returned the other, potfly, “I see you have my card in your and. My name is Feveral—Richard 'everal.” “Well, what do you want?” “Money.” “A beggar?” “Not ataal a friend —from Venezuela!” The duke started and turned pale. He elt that the eyes of the man were fixed eefly upon him. “From Venezuela?” tie repeated, pervosly. “Precisely—from Venezuela,” returned he other, “where your grace, five years go, before you came into the title, wa’s ttache of the Spanish Embassy.” “I repeat, sir, I do not. know you.” “Your grace has forgotten me,” said Several, “but perhaps 1 may be able to efresh your memory. In the meantime wish to enter your service. lam clever, nd sufficiently unscrupulous.” “Sir, you entered this house by a fraud; e good enough to leave it, or I may be nder the painful necessity of having ou forcibly expelled.” “Hear me out,” said Feveral, “and for our own sake do not insult me before opr servants. Engage me, and I will erve you faithfully. 1 know well, my >rd. that the Duke d’Azzeglio is a very Afferent person from the young count vho sowed his wild oats in South AmerAgain the duke started, and. turned eathly pale. “What do you mean?” he asked nervu*ly. “I mean that at one period of my life I ound myself in Venezuela, Where your race was amusing yourself. Every one vas then talking of a merchant, Emilio 'astelar, whose wife your grace admii*ed. 'he husband remonstrated, he was hrown into a prison, whtjre, I have heard, e died!” “Sir, what is all this to me?” “Much. If, for example, your former musements were talked about here, it light affect your prospects as a marrying lan.” “What! You threaten?” “Not at all." answered Feveral, care»ssly. I merely state the case aa a matter f business. Employ me, and, as I have Iready informed you, you will find me seful. Decline my services, and I might ffer them to your rival, he cousin of Lady Constance -Howarth, rhom she loves devotedly.” “How did you learn this?” “My lord,” returned the othar, lightly, my familiar spirit tells me everything.” “I will think it over,” said the duke; perhaps you might be useful.” “I am a treasure, I assure you. 1 shall o myself the honor of calling upon your igice in a few days.” - With a courteous bow he left, the room, ’he moment the door closed upon him the uke became a changed man. His hand linched, and a cruel, vicious look came ito his eyes. “A thorough vagabond,” he said, “whom should like-to strangle. But I must not how my hand to him. I 'am in his power, le knows too much of my past life for me o make him an enemy ajid leave him at iiwe. It may bo well to utilize him! Such . Yellow could be serviceable to me in lany ways. He shall be. I will make im—my spy.” Three days later Feveral again presentd himself before the duke and became an ornate of the house. Once installed, his -conduct was curious. Cor some mysterious reason, he kept a trict watch upon his grace's movements, nd one day the duke noticed this, and aid sharply: — .“You examine me, sir! For why?” *“I was merely wondering, my lord, why ■ou persistently woo the Lady Constance lowarth.” The duke smiled. “I woo the Ixidy Constance because I ,m about to marry her.” “Take my advice, my lord, and refrain rom so doing.” • *“What do you mean ?” “Merely that the lady does not love ou.” “I am perfectly aware of it.” “And yet your grace persists in your pish to make' her the Duchess d’Azzeg-. io?” “I intend to do sb.” If by. this conversation Feveral had oped to put off the contemplated mnrgge of the duke and Lady Constance, e failed. (T.. i CHAPTER XI. Meanwhile things at the Castle had not •cen going, well, and continued trouble vas telling upon Lady Constance, and baking her appear the ghost of what she mce had been. Mrs. Meason. determined o carry her point, continued to point out o the girl the advantage of a marriage rith the duke, while Constance, wearied vjth continual resistance, had learned to i«en placidly and say nothing. Since hjk could not marry Frank, she said to icrself, what did the rest matter? She md not answered his letter, and she tnew it would be better if he never wrote igain. Then Mrs. Meason became seri- ■ J A

ously ill. It seemed now that the old lady would die, and that Constance would be left alone. “Constance,” she said, quietly, one day, “my child, I think that I shall die.” “O, grandma!” cried the girl, “don’t say so! I should be left here alone.” “Alone,” repeated the old lady, feebly; “yes, 1 was thinking of that, my Constance. But why should you be alone when there is a good and honorable man who is willing to make you his wife?" “Grandma, don’t speak of it.” “Constance, promise me that if the Duke d’Azzeglio asks you again to become his wife you will not refuse him.” “Do you know what you are asking?” “Perfectly, my child.” “Then may heaven forgive you!” The next day the duke called at Avondale Castle. When Lady Constance came down she looked so pale and death-like that the duke asked in some alarm if she had been ill. "Lady Constance,” said he, growing very earnest as he spoke, “you know iu what esteem I hold you. My one wish in life is to secure your happiness: may Ido so? Will you be my wife?” “Pray leave me,” she cried, piteously. “But I cannot leave you,” replied the duke, who was becoming'terribly in earnest; “Constance, I love you, be my wife!” "My lord, I—l do not love you.” “Become my duchess.” She looked at him in dazed amazement. “You ask me now, your grace?” “I ask you now,” he replied, passionately pressing her hand; “do not refuse what I ask, for I adore you. Constance, speak, say you will become my wife.” “Since you wish it, then, I will,” she replied. Scarcely had she uttered the words when the duke took her hand, and would have clasped her in his arms, but Constance uttered a wild cry and shrunk away. He frowned and would have spoken sharply, but the girl staggered, then with a. low cry she fell fainting on the floor. • > Just two months later, in a field hospital near a recent battlefield, a wounded officer, none other indeed than Frank Howarth, lay hovering between life and death. Just two days after he had lasted that letter to Constance he had been shot down in an engagement with the enemy. “Let me see my letters,” was his first convalescent cry, “for heaven's sake don’t keep them from me; you don’t know all they mean to me.” Seeing that to cross him would do more harm than to obey him, the nurse placed a packet of letters aixl papers on Frank’s bed. Eagerly and qutcxly Frank seized the letters, and scanned the envelopes one by one; when he came to the end of the packet tears stole from beneath the closed lids of his eyes and rolled slowly down his cheek. Presently he grew more composed, and proceeded with a heavy heart to open his letters. Here a fresh shock awaited him. The first letter which he opened was from his father’s solicitor. It informed him that his father and elder brother were dead; they had both been killed in an accident'to the Scotch express, and that as his brother had left no’ mah' issue, he himself was the Earl of Harrington. For many weeks he lay hovering between life and death,'but again careful nursing wool’ll him slowly back to life. Again he_exaniined his letters, but there were none from Constance. After reading them all t hrough he opened his papers, and almost the first thing that caught his eye was the following: “FAST 1 ION ABI ,E MA RRI AG E. "On Tuesday morning. Jan. !), at. St. Luke’s Church, was celebrated the marriage of His Grace the Duke d’Azzeglio and Lady Constance Howarth, only child of Arthur, the late Earl of Harrington.” CHAPTER XII. After a short honeymoon spent in Paris, the Duke d’Azzeglio took his young duchess io Madrid, whither urgent bush Hess called him. The duke was too busy a riian to spend much time in paying court to his wife. Having married her. he concluded that his duty was done, and he turned his thoughts to other affairs. From the first day of 'her marriage Constance had "suspected that he did not love her? on her marriage day this fact was made known to her as an absolute certainty. The fortnight in I’aris passed Constance like a dull, monotonous dream. Mechanically she performed the duties which her husband demanded of her. and he was grimly satisfied. Her beatify made the stir which he had foreseen, while her diamonds and flii'-jlrosses she wore-were the talk of Paris. (Inc morning the duke informed Constance lhal he wished her to accompany him ou the following evening to a ball at the Tuileries, when he would present her to the empress.—The next afternoon, however, he. received a message from his wife. She was ill, would he excuse her from attending the ball? He went at once to the apartments she occupied, and found her in Intense grief. “You must excuse me. my lord. 1 cannot go," she said. —My cousin is dead.” "Dead!” echoed ilie duke. - For answer Constance pushed toward him a paper: it contained an account ofthose officers who had fallen mortally wounded at Ulandi. Among the list of names was that of Captain Frank Howarth. Constance made no reply. She shuddered, and her tears flowed faster, but more silently than before- She hardly «x>

pectod sympathy from her husband, and he himself had taught her not to look foi love. He took her hand iu his and kissed her cheek coldly; then he went from the room. "Well, ma there,” he said, coldly, “1 suppose to-night 1 must go to the ball alone?” She sat at the window uud looked out Upon the busy street, feeling very much as she had done years ago when she had sat at her window in Avondale Castle uud looked out upon the park, and luyud herself wondering why people were born into this world, since it was so very dreary. Suddenly, as she sat there listening to the dull roar of the street, she seemed to heat a voice—the voice of her friend, Aliev Greybrook—whisper iu her ear: "Constance, promise me that if you are ever in trouble you will summon me instantly to your side.” With a cry Constance rose to her feel and rang the bell. "Order my carriage instantly," she said to her astonished inaid. "1 am going out.” That evening while the Duke d’Azzeglio was bending low over the hand of the empress, and making profuse apologies for the absence of his wife, Constance was standing in a room in the convent waiting for her friend. She remained there several hours. Whe» at length she came forth, she was much changed. Her face was pale and com posed as that of her friend, and that terrible look of dull despair had in a measure passed from her eyes. On arrivinj at the hotel she asked for the duke, and was informed that he had not re turned. "Let me know the moment the duke re turns,” she said to her maid. When tht clock struck one Constance rose, and, without sending any formal message, went at once to her husband’s rooms. The dujyi, who was amazed to see her, was not in the best of tempers. “You are not in bed?” he said; “yet it is late, and after your grief you should be exhausted.” “I have been to the convent this evening,” she began, when the duke inter rupted her—“To the convent!” he said; "so you could go there, but you could not come with mi to the ball?” “No,” replied Constance quietly, “that v,«as different. I sought consolation and found it in the holy place. I returned several hours ago, but I would not go tv bed. 1 wished to wait up for you." r “Ah, that was amiable, but quite unnecessary. Late hours and weary watching will spoil your good looks, and that would not please me, because I choose to have my duchess surpass all other women. Do you understand?” Constance moved toward the door; there she paused and lo'bked at her husband. She took a few steps toward him and breathed his name. He raised his eyes. “Still lingering? Yes? You have something to say?” “Yes,” she answered quietly. “I camt to this room intending to speak seriously to you. I cannot go until I have done so, In the first place, I have to ask your pardon.” “My pardon? For what, pray?” "For taking your name and neglecting to fulfill the duties of a wife.” “Pardon me. You do yourself an injustice. L T ntil to-day you have fulfilled those duties admirably.” “And are you satisfied?” "Perfectly satisfied. I craved for a peerless wife, for a beautiful duchess',” lie returned, “and possess one. Take my advice and preserve your beauty. It is indeed a most precious jewel. Goodnight!" The next morning a telegram was received from Mrs. Meason. The news <>. Frank’s death had evidently alarmed the old lady, who telegraphed for permission to join her grandchild at Madrid at this most trying time. The ducal residence was a magnificent place, nt to be the abode of a king; and not until she entered this palace, half dazed by the magnificence of the reception accorded to her, did Constance realize the enormous wealth of the man she hud married. Here, in one of the Corridors she met a gentleman, who at sight of her removed his hat and bowed low. Constance stopped and looked at him. She seemed to have seen him before. “You are staying at the Castle, monsieur?” she asked. "1 am one of his grace's secretaries," replied the man, with another profound bow. He made way for hyr to pass, and Constance walked on, thinking no more about him. Meanwhile Feveral, for it was he, watched her retreating figure with eyer full of compassion. "Poor lady!” ho said. “I pity her. but 1 cannot spare her. I warned her, and, despite my warning, she rushed upon her doom. How pale she looks, yet how beautiful! Ah. but 1 remember one who was just as fair, and who is sleeping in her grave through him—yes. ” through' him! That thought never leaves me; night and day it is ever with me. urging me oy to my revenge.” (To be Continued.) —~——7 Undignified for a Statesman. It. is said that a woman remembers a man whom she has known well as a little boy always as the little boy. and neVter can think of him as grown up. This saying seems to be borne out to a certain extent, at least. by an amusing story told in connection with the appointment of M. Edouard Lockroy aaf minister of marine in France. When Monsieur Lockroy was a small hoy his father lived In a house In the street in Paris which now boars the name Rue Washington. His home was in the fifth story of this building; and it appears that he had certain habits which rendered him objectionable to some of the other residents of the building—particularly to the concierge. or woman who looked out. for the door. He found, for Instance, a "more expeditious way of coming down from the fifth floor than by the stairs. This excellent woman is still living. When she heard that Edouard Lockroy had become a minister, she threw up her hands in astonishment, and exclaimed: "What! That little Edouard Lockroy! And to think of his always sliding down from the fifth stbyy of the Palace of the Elysee on the blisters!" ---xg.. - .S-— If human dwellings were constructed ou the same propori ionate scale as the ant hill in Africa, private residences would be s mil* high-

TAIMAGE’S SERMON. THEY THAT USE THIS WORLD AS NOT ABUSING IT. — Bev. Dr. Talmage Diacnaaea Good und Bad Recreations—The Force of Music —Outdoor Sports—Foundations for Soul Building—The Last Hour. Social Diversions. In his sennon Sunday Dr. Talmage discussed a subject of universal interest — viz., “Our Social Recreations.” His text was chosen from I. Corinthiaus vii., 31: “They that use this world as not abusing it.”- Judges xvi., 25: “And it came to’ pass, when their hearts were merry, that they said, call for Samson, that he may make us spurt.” , There were 3,1100 people assembled in the temple of Dagun. They had come to make sport of eyeless Samson. They were all ready for the entertainment. They began to clap and pound, impatient for the amusement to begin, and they cried, “Fetch him out, fetch him out!” Yonder I see the blind old giant coming, led by the hand of a child into the very midst of the temple. At his first appearance there goes up a shout of laughter and derision. The blind old giant pretends he is tired, and wants to rest himself against the pillars of the house. So he says to the lad who leads him, “Show rue where the main pillars are!” The lad does so. Then the strong man puts his right hand on one pillar and his left hand on another, and, with the mightiest push that mortal ever made, throws himself forward until the whole house comes down iu thunderous crash, grinding the audience like grapes in a wine press. “And so it came to pass, when their hearts were merry, that they said, call for Samson, that he may make us sport. And they called for Samson out of the prison house, and he made them sport.” In other words, there are amusements that are destructive, and bring down disaster and death upon the heads of those who practice them. While they laugh and cheer, they die. The 3,000 who perished that day in Gaza are as nothing compared to the tens of thousands who have been destroyed by sinful amusements. Lawful Pleasures. But my first text implies that there is a lawful use of the world as well as an unlawful abuse of it, and the difference between the man Christian and the man unChristian is that in the former case the man masters the world, while in the latter ease the world masters him. For whom did God make this grand and beautiful world? For whom this wonderful expenditure of color, this gracefulness of line, this mosaic of the ground, this fresco of the sky, this glowing fruitage of orchard and vineyard, this full orchestra of the tempest, in which the tree branches flute, and the winds trumpet, and the thunders drum, and all the splendors of earth and sky come clashing their cymbals? For whom did God spring the arched bridge of colors resting upon buttresses of broken storm cloud? For whom did he gather the upholstery of fire around the windows of the setting sun? For all men, but more especially for his own dear children. If you build a large mansion and spread a great feast after it to celebrate the completion of the structure, do you allow strangers to cvme in and occupy the place, while you thrust your own children, in the kitchen, or the barn, or the fields? Oh. no! You say, “I am very glad to see strangers in my mansion, but my own sons and daughters shall have the first right there.” Now, God has built this grand mansion of a world, and he has spread a glorious feast in it, and while those who are strangers to his grace maycome in I think that God especially intends to give the advantage to his own children —those who are the sons and daughters of the Lord Almighty, those who through grace can look up and say, “Abba, Father. ' You cannot make me believe that God gives more advantages to the world than he gives to the church bought by his own blood. If, therefore, people of the world have looked with dolorous sym[>athy upon those who make profession of religion aud have said, “Those new converts are going down into privation and into hardship; why did they not tarry a little longer in the world and have some of its enjoyments and amusements and recreations” —1 say to such men of the world, “You are greatly mistaken.,” and before I get through I will show that those people who stay out of the kingdom of God have the hardships and self denials, while those who come iu have the joys and satisfactions. In the name of the King of heaven and earth. I serve a writ of ejectment upon all the sinful and polluted who have squatted on the domain of earthly pleasure as though it belonged to them, while I claim, in behalf of the good and the pure and the true, the eternal inheritance which God has given them. Hitherto Christian philanthropists, clerical and lay, have busied themselves chiefly in denouncing sinful recreations, but-4 feel we have ub right to stand before men and women in whose hearts there is a—desire for recKeation amounting to positive necessity, denouncing this and that and the other thing, when we do not propose to give them something better. God helping me and with reference to my last account. I shall enter upon a sphere not usual in sermonizing, but a subject which I think ought to be preseift’ed at this time. 1 propose now to lay before you some of the recreations which are not only innocent, but positively helpful and advantageous. Influence of Mimic. In the first place, I commend, among indoor recreations, music—vocal and instrumental. Among the first things created was the bird, sojhat the earth might have music at the start. This world, which began with sb sweet a serenade, is finally to be demolished amidst the ringing blast of the archangel's trumpet, so that as there was music at the start, there shall be music nt the close. While this heavenly art has often been dragged into the uses of superstition and dissipation, we all. know it may be the moans of high moral culture. Oh. it is a grand thing to have our children brought up amidst the sound of cultured voices and amidst the melody of musical instfYiments. There isTuThis arran indescribable fascination for the household. Lot all those families who have the means to afford it have flute or harp or piano or organ: As soon as the hand is large enough to compass the keys teach it how to pick out the melody. Let ah our young men try this heavenly art upon their nature. Those who have’gone into it fully have found in it illimitable recreation and amusement. Dark days, stormy nigbta, season* of aick-

neau, business disasters, will do little toward depressing the soul which can gallop off over musical keys or soar in jubilant lay. It will cure pain; it will rest fatigue; it will quell passion; It will revive health; it will reclaim dissipation; it will strengthen the ■ immortal soul. In the battle of Waterloo Wellington saw. that the Highlanders were falling back. He said, “What is the matter there?” He was told that the band of music had ceased playing, and he called up the pipers and ordered them to strike up an inspiriting air, aud no sooner did they strike the air than the Highlauders were rallied and helped to win the day. Oh, ye who have been routed in the conflicts of life, try, by the force of music, to rally your scattered battalions. I am glad to know that in our great cities there is hardly a night in which there are not concerts where, with the best musical instruments and the sweetest voices, people may find entertainment. Patronize such entertainments when they are afforded you. Buy season tickets if you can for the Philharmonic and the Handel and Haydn societies. Feel that the $1.50 or $2 that you spend for the purpose of hearing an artist play or sing Is a profitable investment. Let your academies of music roar with the (Reclamation of appreciative audiences assembled at the concert or the oratorio. Physical Culture. Still further, I commend, as worthy of their support, the gymnasium. This institution is gaining in favor every year, a l I know of nothing more free from dissipation, or more calculated to recuperate the physical and mental energies. While there are a good many people who have employed this institution, there is a vast number who are iguorant of its excellencies. There are men with cramped chests and weak sides and despondent spirits who through the gymnasium might be roused up to exuberance and exhilaration of life. Thero are many Christian people despondent from year to year, who might, through such an institution, be benefited iu their spiritual relations. There are Christian people who seem to think that it is a good sign to be poorly; and because Richard Baxter and Robert Hall were invalid they think that by the same sickliness they may come to the same grandeur of character. I want to tell the Christian people of my congregation that God will hold you responsible for ■ jour invalidism if it is your fault, and when, through right exercises and prudence, you might be athletic and well. The effect of the body upon the soul you acknowledge. Put a man of mild disposition upon the animal diet of which the Indian partakes, and in a little while his blood will change its chemical proportions. It will become like unto the blood of the lion, or the tiger, or the bear, while his disposition will change, and become fierce and unrelenting. The body has a powerful effect upon the soul. Parlor Games. Still further, I commend to you a large class of parlor games and recreations. There is away of making our homes a hundredfold more attractive than they are now. Those parents cannot expect to keep their children away from outside dissipations unless they make the domestic circle brighter than anything they ean fiud outside of it. Do not, then, sit in your home surly and unsympathetic and with a half condemnatory look because of the sportfi^lness of your children. You were young once yourself; let your children be young. Because your eyes are dim and your ankles are stiff, do not denounce sportfulness in those upon whose eyes there is the first luster, and in whose foot there is the bounding joy of robust health. I thank God that in our drawing rooms and in our parlors there are innumerable games and sports which have not upon them the least tWint of iniquity. Light up all your homes with innocent hilarities. Do not sit down with the rheumatism, wondering how children can go on so. Rather thank God that their hearts are so light, and their 'laughter is so free, and their cheeks are so ruddy, and that their expectations are radiant. The night will come soon enough, andythe heartbreak, and the pang, and thh desolation—it will come soon enough for the dear children. But w"|ten the storm actually clouds the sky it will be time though for you td haul out your reef tackles. Carry, then, into your homes not only the innocent sports and games which are the inventions of our own day, but the games which come down with the sportfulness of all the past ages—chess and charades and tableaux and battledore and calisthenics and lawn tennis,' and all those amusements which the young people of our homes know so well how to contrive. Then there will Im* the parlor socialities —groups of people assembled in your homes, with wit and mimicry and joviality, filling the room with joy from door to mantel, and from the carpet, to the ceiling. Oh, is there any exhilaration like a score of genial souls in one room, each one adding a contribution of his own individual merriment to the, aggregation of general hilarity? Suppose you want to go abroad in the city, then you will find the panorama, and the art gallery, and the exquisite collections of-pictures :You_ wilLJind thejnikseum and’ the Historical Society rooms full of rare curiosities, and scores of places which can stand plainly the test of what is right and wrong in amusemeirrs. You will find the lecturing hall which has been honored by the names of Agassiz in natural history, Doremus in chemistry, Boynton in geology. Mitchell in astronomy. John B. Gough in moral reform, and scores and hundred of men who have .poured their wit and genius and ingenuity through that particular channel upon the hearts aud conscieuces‘’anfl imaginations of men. setting this country fifty years, farther in a.dvance than it would have bi*eu without the lecture platform. I rejoice in the popularization of outdoor sports. I hail the croquet ground, -and the—fishermanis rod. and the sports, man’s gun. In our cities, life is so-un-healthy and unnatural that when the census taker Represents a city as having 4<M>.ooo inhabitants there are only 200,(XX). simv it fakes at least two men to amount to one itian. so depleting and unnerving and exhausting is this metropolitan life. We want,-more fresh air. more .sunlight, more of the abandon of field sports. I cry out for it in behalf of tiie church of God as well as in behalf of secular infcrests. I wish that *oqr ponds and our rivers and our capitoline,grounds might be all aquake with the Keel apd the shout of the swift skater. I wish that when the warm weather comes the graceful otir might dip the stream, -and the evening tide be resonant withlioatman’s ■ song, the bright prow splitting the crystalline billow. We shall have the smooth and grassy lawn, and we will call out the people of all apd professions and ask them

to join In the ballplayer’s] sport You mil come back from these cnitdoor exerciser and recreations with strength in your arm and color in your cheek and a flash in your eye and courage in your heart. In this great battle that is opening against the kingdom of darkness, we want not only a consecrated soul, but a strong arm and stout lungs and mighty muscle. I bless God that there are so many recreations that have hot on them any taint of iniquity—recreations in whi<*h we may engage for the strengthening of the body, for the clearing of the intellect, for the illumination of the soul. There is still another form of reereatior which I commend to you, and that is tb* pleasure of doing good. I have seen young men, weak and cross and sour and repelling in their disposition, who, by one heavenly touch, have wakened up und become blessed and buoyant, the ground under their feet aud the sky over their heads -breaking forth into music. "Oh,” says some young man in the house today, “I should like that recreation above all others, but I have not the means.” My dear brother, let us take e.n account of stock. You have a large estate, if you only realize it. Two hands, two feet. You will have, perhaps, during the rfext year at least $lO for charitable contribution. You will have 2,500 cheerful looks, if you want to employ them. You will have 5,000 pleasant words, if you want to speak them. Now, what an amount that is to start with! You go out to-morrow morning, aud you see a case of real destitution by the wayside. You give him 2 cents. The blind man hears the pennies rattle ip his hat, and he says: “Thank you, sir! God bless you!” You pass down the street, trying to look indifferent, but you feel from the very depth of your soul a profound satisfaction that you made that man happy. You go on still farther and find a poor boy with a wheelbarrow, trying to get it up on the curbstone. He fails in the attempt. You say: “Stand back, my lad. Let me try.” You push it up on the curbstone for him and pass on. He wonders who that well-dressed man was that helped him. You did a kindness to the boy, but you did a great joy to your own soul. You wi 11 not get over- it all the week. On the street to-morrow morning you will see a sick man passing along. “Ah,” you say, “what ean I do to make this man happy? He certainly does not want money; he is not poor, but he is sick.” Give him one of those 2,500 cheerful looks that you have garnered up for the whole year. Look joy and hopefulness into his soul. It will thrill him through, and there will be a reaction upon your own soul. Going a little farther on, you will come to the store of a friend who is embarrass,Rd in business matters. You will go in and say: “What a fine store you have! I think business will brighten up, and you will have more custom after awhile. I think there is coming a great prosperity to all the country. Good morning.” You pass out. You have helped that young man, and you have helped yourself The Greatest JoyT Col. Gardiner, who sat with his elbow on a table spread with all extravagant viands, looking off at a dog on the rug, saying, “How I would like to change places with him, I be the dog and he be Col. Gardiner,” or those two Moravian missionaries who wanted' to go into the lazaretto for the sake of attending the sick, and they were "told: “If you go in there you will never come out. We never allow anyone to come out, for he would bring the contagion.” Then they made their wills and went in, first to help the sick and then to die. Which was the happier—Col. Gardiner or the Moravian missionaries dying for others? Was it all sacrifice when the missionaries wanted to bring the gospel to the negroes at the Barbadoes and. being denied the privilege, sold themselves into slavery, standing side by side and lying side by side down in the very ditch of suffering, in order that they might bring those men up to life’and God and heaven? Oh. there is a thrill in the joy of doing good! It is the most magnificent recreation to which a man ever put his hand, or his head, or his heart. But before closing I want ,ito impress upon you that mere secular entertainments are not a fit foundation for your soul to build on. I was reading of a woman who had gone all the rounds of sinful amusement, and she came to die? She said, ”1 will die to-night ait 6 o’clock.” “Oh‘,” they said, “I gflesd not! You don't seem to be sick.” “I shall die at (5 o’clock, and my soul will be lost. I know it will be lost I have sinned away my day of graced’ The noon came. They desired her to seek religious counsel. “Oh,” she said, “it is of no use! My day is gone. I have been all the rounds of worldly pleasure, and it is too late. I shall die to-night at 6 o’clock.” The day wore away, and it came to 4 o'clock and to 5 o'clock, and she cried out at 5 o’clock. “Destroying spirits, you shall not have me yet! It is not 6—it is not 6!” The moments went by, and the shadows began to gether, and the clock struck 6, and while it was striking her soul went. What hour God will call for us I do not know—whether G o’clock to-night, or 3 o'clock this afternoon, or at 1 o’clock, or at this moiiu'ht. Sit ting where you are, falling forward, or dropping down, where will you go to? — The last hour Aif our life will soon be hers, and from thaUhour we will review this day's proceedings. It will be a solemn hour. If from our death pillow we have to look back and see a life spent in sinful amusement, there will be a dart that will strike through our soul sharper than the dagger with which Virginitis slew his child. The memory of the past will make us ..quake Jike Macbeth. The iniquities and rioting through which we have passed will come uix>n us. weird and skeleton as Meg Merrilles. Death, the old Shylock, will demand and take the remaining iwVtnd of flesh and the remaining drop of blood, and upon our last opixirt unity foe repentance and our. last clianee for heaven the curtain will forever arop : i .. James Russell Lowell's Home. There is concern iu Boston about the future of Janies Russell Lovyell’s mag uifleent old home iu Cambridge, at the gateway of Mount Auburn Cemetery. “ The house is the property of the poet’s daughter, bißt (be land adjoining it is in the hands of real estate agents, aud the tine estate will soon be cut up into * building lots’ unless the property is rescued. Sagadahoc County, Maine, is expecting to make about $5,000 out of prohibition shortly. - Forty-eight Indictments' for violations of the liquor lav.' have been found in the county, and it is fig* ured the tines will amount to the sum ’ named, •