Decatur Democrat, Volume 40, Number 4, Decatur, Adams County, 10 April 1896 — Page 7

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■ v ', ■ . CHAPTER XHI. |i receipt of a telegram, Mrs. Meason, Hite the very delicate state of her ■ th, started at once for Spain, and ■ day arrived, quite unexpectedly, al ■ Castle when the duke and duchess H) to dinner. H the sight of her grandmother Coulee was quite overcome. She cried Hrly, and passionately kissed the old ■’) face and hands, greatly to the an- ■ nce of the duke. Hfy dear Constance,” said Mrs. Mea- ■ “how pale you look! Why has the Hos Spain brought no roses to your ■k 8 ?” Hour grandchild, madam, infinitely preHthe fogs of England," said the duke, ■’ell, is it not natural? It is her He; she is an English woman.” The ■> shrugged his shoulders, ■was a great consolation to Constance Have her grandmother with her, and Hig the days which followed the old Hs arrival she seemed more contented ■ she had been since her marriage. ■ duke soon noticed this, and did not ■ well pleased. lie was of that mor- ■ jealous disposition which grudges ■rment even while not coveting it. ■sides all this, the duke had an irri■g conviction that when the two wom■ere alone they were always extolling Hittites of the young officer who had ■ The duke's displeasure at all this ■very soon made manifest. One day ■ Meason informed Constance of that ■that she was about to return home, ■tance was amazed. ■eturn home, grandma?” she said, ■y* should you do that? Surely my ■ is your home.” are right, my child—it should be ■ut your husband does not wish it.” ■tance started angrily. ■y husband!” she said, “the duke, has ■ired to send you away?” ■ush. my child; remember that he is ■ husband.” not ask me to visit you again, Conshe said, in leaving. “Your hus■l has said things to me which will my ever again living beneath his with indignation, Constance M instantly in search of her husband. him in his library. ■[wish to speak to you," she said, Bly. ■ t your communication be brief, for he said. “What is it?” communication is of as much imas your business to-day," she ■d, haughtily. “You have insulted I wish to know the insulted her, you say? Pray, Ms your informant?" grandmother is my informant. wish, monsieur, to exile me one person in the world who i H for me?" this you mean your grandmother, Well, if she cares for you had a most peculiar way of show-■-that is all!” do you mean?” asked Con- ■> quickly. M duke shrugged his shoulders. ■l explain,” he said, "pray bear in I was not the first to broach While in this house Mrs. took upon herself the task o's my conduct toward my wife. I dislike unpleasant scenes. 1 intimated to Mrs. Meason that JDuchess d’Azzeglio occupies too a. position to be permitted to pre world with food for scandal by a broken heart away from her roof, 1 must request her not to in my house the process which HHd found so efficacious in the house father. When I tirst wooed you." he, “I knew I had the good of your guardian. 1 thought at that she was influenced by some feeling toward me; yet 1 diseovgHfterward that h-r sole object was her grandchild in order that, as d’Azzeglio, she might pass pride the man whom, above all Mrs. Meason disliked. Well, her not succeeded; the man is dead far as Mrs. Meason is concerned. 4 Harriage has accomplished nothing." but Constam-e said nothing. HHte feeling of dread was upon her; in her husband’s tone rath (his words struck terror to her IKour grandmother hail been more me at first, instead of allowing SHliscover all her secrets for myself, have been better for me; it eerhave been better for her." the duke. “After 1 had offered you she determined at all haz |M Areak off your engagement to your .‘son . 'de;, , is i:i.n accomplishes what she ■H. herself to do, she succeeded in this -by a falsehood!" The reason she gave you F ■ iking off your engagement was |Mth of your mother under the perof Captain Howarth's family of his father—is it. not murmured Constance; “1 could him; my mother's spirit stood us.” Constance, allow mo to ■ >u that the little story which sop from your lover was a fabriwas an outrage, as I took care ■Hirer. The Ear! of Harrington ■H Howarth’s father was the very ■■honor; but 1 c had one great fault

—ho disliked Mrs. Meason. They quarreled, and no one was to blame but —the lady. Her tyranny finally separated husband and wife, and hastened the death of the latter.” “Doyou mean to say,” said Constance, hoarsely, “that this which you have told me is true; that lhe whole story of my poor mother’s sorrow was a fabrication?” “Not at all; the story of the poor lady's sorrowful death was true—it was altered in the telling, that was all. The blame of the whole thing was, for your benefit, laid at the door of the Harrington family; whereas the sole cause of it was Mrs. Meason herself; and your mother was a gentle, loving girl, and was received by your father’s family with open arms. All would have gone well but for Mrs. Meason, who a few weeks after the marriage entered the house of the young married couple and put an end to. anything like peace. She had always been an ambitious woman, and she looked forward to the marriage of her daugnter as a means of gaining for herself an entrance into society. When she was forbidden to enter her daughter’s house her plans were shattered, and she resolved to have revenge. When Captain Howarth wooed you, her time came; ‘I will break his heart,’ she said; ‘I will avenge myself on the father by means of the son.’ To accomplish this it was necessary to Invent a falsehood; she invented that falsehood, and her plan succeeded.* Your engagement to your cousin was broken, and you wgro married to me.” Again he paused, but this time Constance said nothing. She staggered from the library to her own room. Once there, in a wild fit of despairing pain, she fell upon her knees, calling upon the name of the man whom she had loved so ardently, but who, alas! was dead. Her first coherent thought was, how she could best get to her grandmother and demand from her the truth or falsehood of the terrible story she had heard. She made her arrangements quickly and in a manner to excite no suspicion. First of all she sat down to write to the duke. "I am going to London,” she wrote. “Until I have seen my grandmother and heard her version of this story, I cannot rest. CONSTANCE.” She placed this-letter on her dressing table in a position where it would be easily found by her husband, then she ordered her carriage. Weary with long travel, heart-sick with over-much grief, she stood in the drawing room at Portland place, gazing upon her grandmother with large, wistful eyes, two days later. “Grandma,” spoke the girl, with strange earnestness, “the duke has told me a terrible story, and I have come to ask you if it is true. I could not rest until I had seen you. He says you have been cruel to me; that by means of a falsehood yo,u. separated me from Frank; but I do not believe it; it is he who has been deceiving me. You would not do so, you love me too well.” The old lady did not speak. Her face was agonized. There was no need for words; Constance looked into her eyes anti read the truth. “Don’t touch me!” she cried; “don't cqme near me; I cannot bear it! Oh, may heaven forgive you!” “Oh. my child, I have wronged you bitterly; I see it now, but it is too late,” cried the old lady. “Years ago Frank Howarth's father Wounded me deeply, and I swore that his son and one of my blood should never come together, and I kept my word. I married you to the duke, believing that, once a wife, your childish passion for your cousin w’Ould soon fade away, but I was wrong. When I met you in Spain and looked in your eyes I knew that I had ruined your life, and I repented when it was too late.” “Yes,” said the girl, “too late. My love is dead! He does not know what I have done; he will never know, and I can love him and mourn for him all my life. Oh, Frank, my darling, sleep peacefully; henceforth I will be true to you. and some day perhaps we may meet again." “Constance, my child, remember you are a wife!” “A wife! I am no wife, for I do not love my husband. At your intercession 1 married the duke; I stood before the altar with him like one in a dream—a terrible dream. ' I realize it-notv; I have awakened to misery and death.” CHAPTER~XIV. A week after the day when Constance, standing before her grandmother, heard the story of the cruel wrong which had been done her, and in her heart thanked heaven that her lover wasdead, a troopship from the seat of Avar was entering Portsmouth harbor, bearing the disabled soldiers home. From the earliest hours of dawn the streets had been gayly decorated with Hags, and crowds had begun to gather. When the great Ship approached a eheer went up from every throat, and many eyes grew dim. On the deck the soldiers gathered, straining their eyes shoreward, their pale faces brightened with the glow of expectation. For att knew that amidst that dense crowd stood a wife, a mother, or a sister, waiting to receive.them with oi»en arms. All? Not there was one man standing apart from the rest who - regarded the crowd with a look of blank misery-.,., He wore his left arm in a sling, and listened to the joyful shouts like one in a dream. It was Frank Howarth. He went he shrunk from watching the greeting between the soldiers and tlujir friends; so he sat 'there and thought bitterly of the

f past; recalled the day when ha bad art«O Constance to become his wife, and she had consented. Yet, she had loved him then, he felt sure of it; but how soon her low had ehanged. “She was false as perdition!" he cried, “and yot I go to because I wish to breathe the same air with her, to be near her, although the very thought of it almost drives me mad.” He waited til) most of his comrades half gone ashore, then he too landed, drove to the station, and was just in time to cwtdh the train to London. Arriving, Frank called a hansom, and giving his servant the name of the hotel at which he meant to stop, ordered him to follow with the baggage. Ho dined, then he strolled out into the streets. How desolate everything seemed; and yet things were going on mudh Iri tho same old way. The Strand was thronged, ami people hurried along, hardly giving a glance at the pale young fellow carrying his arm in a sling. He walked on, strolling up Regent street. Suddenly he heard a voice calling his name; ho stopped, looked around and beheld a face he knew. A neat little brougham, drawn by a handsome pair of bays, had stopped near the curbstone, and from it protruded the head of Lady Seafield. “Good heavens, Captain Howarth," exclaimed the little lady as Frank went up to her; “then it is really you. When I first saw you I thought it was your ghost! A ghost." “Why should you think it®was my ghost, Seafield?” "Why? My dear sir, everybody believes you to be dead. It was reported that you were killed in action, and the report was never contradicted.” "I have been wounded,” said Frank, glancing at his injured arm. “Ah! poor fellow!’ exclaimed the countess, sympathetically, "and now you have come home to be petted and made much of. Well, the Earl of Harrington will find his friends melting to give him a glorious welcome. Have you seen Constance?” Frank started, bit his lip and was amazed to feel that his face was flushing painfully. “I have seen no one,” he said. “Ah! the poor child will go crazy when she hears you are alive. Ever since that report came she has been in terrible grief, wore the deepest mourning and positively refused to go anywhere; but of course that will be all changed now. Every one expects her to be the sensation of the season, and I have no doubt she will be; she is more beautiful than ever she was in her life.” Frank said nothing, but as he listened a cold sneer curled his lip. The countess saw and fancied she hud told enough. “Well, au revoir,” she said, “now that you are here and not dead, I hope you will come and see us.” Mechanically Frank raised his hat, and the brougham moved away. When it had gone a few yards the countess gave the order: “Go to No. 104 Park lane.” It was the temporary residence of the d’Azzeglio; for the duke had speedily followed Constance to London. At 4 o’clock in the afternoon it was Constance’s custom to take tea in her boudoir. In -the ordinary course’of things it would have been her hour for receiving her friends, but Constance, being in the deepest mourning, would go nowhere and receive no one. That afternoon the door of her boudoir opened, and to her amazement the duke came in. “Constance,” he said coldly, “to-morrow night I attend a state convert; I wish you to accompany me.” “I cannot go,” she said; “it is impossible," and pointed to her black dress. “Pardon me,” said the duke gravely; “it matters very much to me. It is now some time since you became my wife; when you accepted that honor I flattered myself that you would appreciate it at its worth. I have been disappointed; your mourning looks distress me, and make me think you are not happy.” “What do you wish me to do?” , “Smile, laugh, be cheerful, look your best. It is not much 1 ask. When one possesses a diamond and sets it as a jewel on his heart its business is to shine. My diamond is my duchess. Do you understand?” Constance was about to reply when the door of her boudoir was opened agaip, and the servant quietly announced the Countess of Seafield, who chatted on until the duke, weary with waiting for her departure, took his leave. The moment he was gone the countess rushed at Constance, and, with many kisses and tears, told her of the miraculous resurrection of her cousin. That same night tho duke received a message from his wife. It was to the effect that she was ready to accompany him on the following evening to the concert. (To be continued.) 0T Lincoln in the Five Points. Not long before Lincoln was first nominated for the Presidency he went to New York to make a political speech at the Cooper Union. While there, according to a writer in the Philadelphia PreSs, he wandered about the city a good deal, and once went to the Five Points, then the most notorious of New York slums. —- There he was attracted by the sound of music, and perceiving upon a door an invitation to strangers to enter, he went in, and found himself in the Five Points Mission. His manner betrayed so much interest in the children, especially in their singing, that the superintendent, though he did not know him, invited him. to speak. Mr. Lincoln accepted the Invitation, and as the superintendent used to say, talked to the children just as a loving and a wise father might have talked to his own sons and daughters, without a trace of pedantry or cant. After tire exercises the superintendent asked the stranger for his name. “My name is Lincoln,” was the answer. “I live in Illinois." And then the superintendent knew that the speaker must bo the man whose address at the Cooper Union had been so much talked about for the last few days. Every American President has had from three to thirty-two towns named for him. There are thirty cities and towns namedjifter Alt^xander Hamilton. thirty Clintons.-twenty-four Websters, nineteen Qulncys, twenty-one Douglases and twentv Blainet 73 ■ rll

STARTING FOR HOME. r REV. DR. TALMAGE PREACHES A RADICAL SERMON. Tba pjodlgai’e Return Fnrnlahes the Theme for a Powerful Dliconnie-A Divine Cure for the Ilin of the World—A Glorious Invitation. The Capital Pulpit. A most radical gospel sermod is the one of last Sunday by Dr. Talmage. It runs up and down the whole gamut of glorious invitation. His text wus Luke xv., 18 “I will arise ami go to my father.” There is nothing like hunger to take the energy out of 11 man. A hungry man can toil neither with pen nor hand nor foot. There has been many an army defeated not so much for luck of ammunition aa for lack of bri-ud. It was thgt fact that took the fire out of this young man of the text Storm and exposure will wear out any man's life in time, but hunger makes quick work. The most awful cry ever heard on earth is the cry for bread. A traveler tells us tbut in Asia Minor there are trees which bear fruit looking very much like the long bean of our time. It is called the carob. Once in awhile the people, reduced to destitution, would eat these carobs, but generally the carobs, the beans spoken of here in the text, were thrown only to the swine, and they crunched them with great avidity. But this young man of my text could not even , get them without stealing them. So one day, amid the Swine troughs, he begins to 'soliloquize. He says: “These are no clothes for a rich man’s son to wear; this is no kind of business for a Jew to be engaged in, feeding swine. I’ll go home; 1'1) go home.. I will arise and go to my father.” I know there are a great many people who try to throw a fascination, a romance, a halo, about sin, but notwithstanding all that Lord Byron and George Sand have said in regard to it, it is n mean, low, contemptible business, and putting food and fodder into the troughs of a herd of iniquities that rout and wallow in the soul of‘man is a very floor business for men and women intended to be sons and daughters of the Lord Almighty, and when this young man resolved to go home it was a very wise thing for him to do. and the only question is whether we will follow him. Satan promises large wages if we will serve him, but he clothes his victims with rags, and he pinches them with hunger, and when they start out to do better he sets after them all the bloodhounds of hell. Satan comes to us to-day, and he promises all luxuries and emoluments if we will only serve him. Liar, down with thee to the pit! “The wages of sin is death.” Oh, the young man of the text was wise when he uttered the resolution, “I will arise and go to my father.” In the time of Mary, the persecutor, a persecutor came to a Christian woman who had hidden in her kotise for the Lord’s sake one of Christ’s.servants, and the persecutor said, “Wh’ere is that heretic?” The Christian woman said, "You open that trunk and you will see the heretic.” The persecutor opened the trunk, and on tho top of tbe linen of the trunk he saw a glass. He said, “There is no heretic here.” “Ah!” she said, "you look in the glass and you will see the heretic.” Seeing Ourselves. 4 As I take up the mirror of God’s word to-day, I would that, instead of seeing the prodigal of the text, we might see our- i selves —our want, our wandering, our sin, our lost condition —so that we might be as wise as this young man was and say, "I will arise and go to my father.” The resolution of this text wgs formed in a disgust at his present, circumstances. If this young man had been by his employer set to culturing flowers, or training vines over an arbor, or keeping an account of the pork market, or overseeing other laborers, he would not have thought of going home—if he had had his pockets full of money, if he had been able to say: "I have SI,OOO now of my own. What's the use of my going back to my father's house? Do you think I’m going back to apologize to the old man? Why, he would put me on the limits. He would not have going on around the old place such conduct as I have been engaged in. I won’t go home, There is no reason why I should go home. I have plenty of money, plenty of pleasant surroundings. Why should Igo home?” Ah, it was his pan- * perism, it was his beggary. He had to go home. Some man comes' and says to me: “Why do you talk about the ruined state of the human soul? Why don’t you speak about the progress of the nineteenth century snd talk of Something more exhilarating?” It is for this reason: A man never wants the gospel until he realizes he is in a famine struck state. Suppose I should come to you in your home, and you are in good, sound, robust health, and I should begin to talk about medicines, and about how much better this medicine is than that, and some other medicine than some other medicine, and talk about this physician and that physician. After a while you would get tired, and you would say: “I don't want to hear about medicines. Why do you talk to me of physicians? I never have a doctor." But suppose I come into your house and I find you severely sick, and I know the medicine that will cure you, and I know the physician tvho is Skillful enough to meet your case. You say: "Bring on all that medicine, bring on that physician. I am terribly sick; and I want help." Ruined by Sin. If I come to ybp, and you feel you are all right in body, and all right in mind, and all right in soul, you have need of nothing, but suppose I have persuaded you that the leprosy of sin is upon you, the worst of alb sickness. Oh. then you aay, “Bring me that balm of the gospel, bring me that divine tuedieaineut, bring me Jesus Christ.” “But," says some one In the audience, “how do you.know that we are iu a ruined condition by sin?” Well, I can prove it in two ways, and you may have your, chojee. I can prove it either by the statements of men or by the statement of God. Which shall it be.' You say, “Let us have the statement of God.” Well, he says in one place. "The heart is deceitful above all things and desperately He says in another place, “What is nian that he shofild be clean, and he which is born of woman 0 that he. should be righteous?" He says in another place, "There" is none that doeth good—no, not one." He says in another place, "As by one man sin entered into, the, world, and death by sim_ And so death passed upon ail ■men, for that all had sinned." "Well," you say, “I am willing to acknowledge that 1 , but why should I take the particular rescue

that you propose?” This is the reason: “Excspt a man be born again he cannot see the kingdom of God.” This is the reason: “There is one name gif*en under heaven among men whereby they may be saved." Then there are a thousand voices here ready to say: "Well, I am ready to accept this help of the gospel. I would like to have this divine cure. How shall Igo to (vork?” Let me say that a mere whtm, an undefined longing,‘‘hmounts to nothing. You must have a stout, a tremendous resolution like this young u»an of the text when he said. "I will arise and go to my father.” “Oh,” says some man, “how do I know my father wants me? How do I know if I go back I would be received?” “Oh," says some man, “you don’t knovy where I have been; you don’t know how far I have wandered; you wouldn't talk that way to me if you knew all the iniquities I have committed." What is that flutter among the angels of God? What is that horseman running with quick dispatch? It is news, it is news! Christ Injs found the lost. Nor angels can their joy contain, But kindle with new fire. The sinner lost is found, they sing. And strike the sounding lyre. God's Infinite Mercy. When Napoleon talked of going into Italy, they said: “You can’t get there. If you knew what the Alps were, you would not talk about it or think about it. You can’t get your ammunition wagons over the Alps.” Then Napoleon rose in his stirrups, and, waving his hand toward die mountains, he said, “There shall be no Alps!” That wonderful pass was laid out which has been the wonderment of all the years since—the wonderment of all engineers. Ami you tell me there are such mountains of sin betweeu your soul wid God there is no mercy. Then I see Christ waving his hand toward the mountains. I hear him say. “I will come over tire mountains 01 thy sin ami the hil,U of thjne iniquity.” There shall be no Pyrenees; there shall be no Alps. Again, 1 notice that this resolution of the young man of my text was founded in sorrow at his misbehavior. It was not more physical plight. It was grief that he had so maltreated his father. It is a sad thing after a father has done everything fora child to have that child ungrateful. How sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is To have a thankless child. That is Shakspeare. “A foolish son is the heaviness of his mother.” That is the Bible. \\ ell, my friends, have not some of us been cruel prodigals? Have we not maltreated our Father? And such a Father! Three times a day has he fed thee. He has poured sunlight into thy day and ar night kindled up all the street lamps of heaven. With what varieties of apparel he hatlrMothed thee for the seasons. Whose eye watches thee? Whose hand defends thee? Whose heart sympathizes with thee? Who gave you your children? Who is guarding your loved ones departed? Such a Father! So loving. so kind. If he had been a stranger; if lie had forsaken ns: if he had flagellated us; if he had pounded us and turned us out of doors on rhe commons, it would not have been so wonderful—our treatment of him; but he is a Father, so loving, so kind, and yet how many of us for our wanderings have never apologized! If we say anything that hurts our friend’s feelings, if we do anything that hurts the feelings of those in whom we are interested, how.quickly we apologize! We can scarcely wait iwitil we get pen and paper to write a letter of apology. How easy it is for any one who is intelligent, right hearted, to write an apology or make an apology! Wo apologize for wrongs done ; to our fellows, but some of us perhaps have committed ten thousand times ten ' thousand wrongs against God and never apologized. An Irreparable Loss. I remark still further that this resolution of the text was founded in a feeling of homesickness. Ido not know how long this young man, how many mouths, how many years, he had been away from his father's house, but there is something about the reading of my text that makes me think he was homesick. Some of you know what that fedtiug-is. Far away from hjjjinejSoiuetimes, surrounded by everything bright and pleasant—plenty of friends—you have said, "I would give the world to be home to-night.” Well, this young man was homesick for his father’s house. I have no doubt when he thought of bis father’s house he said, “Now, perhaps father may not bo living.” We read nothing in this story, this parable, founded on everyday life—we read nothing r about the mother. It says nothing about going home to her. I think she was dead. 1 think she had died of a broken heart at his wanderings, or perhaps .he had gone iifW dissipation from the fact that he could not remember a loving and sympathetic mother. A man never gets over having lost his mother. Nothing said about her, but h? is homesick sot his father’s house. He thought he would just like to go ami walk-around the old place. He thought he would just like to go and see if things were as they used to be. Many a man after having beeh off a long while has gone home and knocked at the door..and a stranger has come. It is the old a stranger comes to the door. He finds out father is gone and mother is gone and brothers and sisters all gone. I think this young man of rhe text said to himself. “Perhaps father may be dead." Still he starts to find out. He is-homesick. Are there any here to-day home-sick for God, homesick for heaven? To Be Almost Saved la to Be Lost. There is a man who said? long ago, “If I could live to the year 1890. by that rime I will have my business matters all axrafiged, and I will have time to attend to religion, and I will be a good, thorough, consecrated Christian." The year 1896 has come. January, February, March, April—a third of the year gone. Where is your broken vow? “Oh.” says some man. “I'll attend to that When I get my character fixed up, when I can get over my evil habits: I am now given to strong drink." Oh. says the man. “I am given to undeanliuess." Or. says the man: “I am given to dishonesty. When I get over my present habits, then I’ll be a thorough Christian."- J-My brother, yon will get worse and worse, until Christ takes you in hand. “Not , the righteous, sinners Jesus came to call." Oh. bitt you say, “I agree with you in all that, but 1 must put, it off a little longer." Do you know there Were many who came just as near as you are to the kingdom of God and never entered it? 1 was at Eastbampton, and I wci'it into the cemetery to look around, and in that cemetery there are twelve graves side by side—the graves of sailors. This crew, some years ago. in a ship went into the breakers at Amagansett, about three miles away. My lirother, then preaching at Eastbampton, had been at the burial. These men of tbe crew came very near being saved. The people from

Amagansett saw the vessel, and they shot rockets, and they sent ropes from tbs shore, and these poor fellows got into the boat, and they pulled mightily for the shore, but just before they got to the shore the rope snapped and the boat capsized, and they were lost, their bodies afterward washed npfiri the beach. Oh, what a solemn day it" was—l have been told of it by my brother—when these twelve men lay at the foot of the pulpit, and he read over them the funeral service. They earne very near shore —within shouting distance of the shore, yet did not arrive on solid land. There are some men who come almost to the shore of Godht mercy, but not quite, übt quite. To b« almost saved is to be lost! Two Protligals. I will tell you of two prodigals—the one that got back, and the other that did not get back. In Richmond there is a very prosperous and beautiful Imine in many respects. A young man wandered off from that home. He wandered very far into sin. They heard of him after, but he was always on the wrong track. He would not go home. At the door of that beautiful home one night there was a great outcry. The young man of the house ran down to open the door to see what was the matter. It was midnight. The rest of the family were asleep. There were the wife and children of this prodigal man. The fact was he had come heane and driven them out. He said: “Out of this house! Away with these children! I will dash rheir brains out. Out into the storm I" The mother gathered them up and fled. The next morning the brother, the young man who had staid at home! went out to find this prodigal brother and son, and he came where he was and saw, the young man wandering up and down in front of the place where he had beer! slaying, and the young man who had his integrity said to the older brother} "Here, what does all this mean? What is the matter with you? Why do you act in this way?” The prodigal looked at him and said: “Who am I? Who do you taka me to be?” He said, “You are my brother.” “No, lam not. lam a brute. Hava you seen anything of my wife and <4Fc dren? Are they dead? I drove them out last night in, the storm. I am a brute! John, do you think there is any help for me? Do you think I will ever get over this life of dissipation?" He said, “John, there is one thing that will stop this," The prodigal ran his fingers across throat and said: “That will stop it, and I will stop it before night. Oh, my brain'. . I can stand it no longer.” That prodigal “ never got home. But I wilt tell you of a prodigal that did get home. In Eag'and two young men started from their father’s house and went down to Portsmouth —I have been there —a beautiful seaport. Some of you have been there. The father could- not pursue his children- for some reason he could not leave home —and 30 he wrote a letter down to Mr. Griffin, saying: “Mr. Griffin, I wish you would go ana see my two sons. They have arrived in Portsmouth, and they are going to taka ship and going away from home. I wisl you would persuade them back." Tlie Pardon of the Gospel. Mr. Griffin went and tried to persuade them back. He persuaded one fa &o. He went with very easy persuasion because he was very homesick already. The other young man said: “I will not go. I have had enough of home. I’ll never go home." "■Well,” said Mr. Griffin, “then if you won’t go home I’ll get you a respectable position on a respectable ship.” “No, you won't” said the prodigal: “no you won’t. I am going as a private sailor; as a common sailor. That will plague my father most and what will do most to tantalize and worry him will please me best.” Years passed on arui Mr. Griffin was seated in his study one day when a messenger came to him saying there was a young man in irons on a ship at the dock a young man condemned to death—who wished to see this clergyman. Mr. Griffin went down to the dock and went on shipboard. The young man said to him, “You don't know me, do you?” “No,” he said, “I don’t know you.” “Why, don’t you remember that young man you tried to persuade to go home and he wouldn’t go?” “Oh, yes,” soid MY. Griffin. “Are you that man?” “Yes, I am that man,"’said the other. “I would like to have you pray for me. I have committed murder and I must die, but I don't want to go out of this world until some one pravs for me. You are my father'r friend and I would like to have you pra; for me." Mr. Griffin went from judicial authority to judicial authority to get that young man's pardon. He slept not night nor day. He went from influential person to influential person, until in some way he got that young man’s pardon... He cams down on the dock and as he arrived on thd dock with the pardon the father came. He had heard that his son. under a disguised name, had been committing crime and was going to be put to death. 8o Mr. Griffin and the father went on ship’s.deck and at the very moment Mr. Griffin offered the pardon to the yonng man the old father threw his arms around the son's neck and the son said: "Father. I have done very wrong and lam very sorry. 1 wish I liad never broken your heart. I am very sorry!" "Oh." said the father, “don't mention it. It won’t ma£e any difference now. It is all over. I forgive you. my son.” And he kissbd him and kissed him and kissed him. To-day I offer you the pardon of the gospel—ful| pardon, free pardon. I do not care what your crime has been. — Though you say you have committed a crime against God, "against your soul, against your fellow man. against your family, against the day of judgment, against the cross of Christ--whatever your crime has beeu, here is pardon, full pardon, and the very moment yon take that pardon your Heavenly Father tfiraws his arms around about you and says: “My son, I forgive you. It is all right. You are as much in my favor now as if you had never sinned." Oh. there is- joy on. earth and joy in heaven. Who wtil take the Father's embrace? Irteh soldiers fought in King Philip’s war. which broke out Ih 1675. and some even earlier, iu tbe Pequod war. His-j topical evidence exists of Irish in New England within twenty, years} after the landing at Plymoyth Rock. AseMrly as 1634 Massaclrusqtts granted land near Newburyport to certain Irish aud Scotch corners, and-in 1636 arrived the ship St. Patrick, belonging to §ir Thomas Wentworth, deputy of Ireland. In 1548. after the introduction ol metal pins as an article of feminine use, they becgiue popular ns \cw Year presents. They were very expensive, and for a gentleiixan to make his lady friends a present of four or five pinj was considered a very happy thought