The Syracuse Journal, Volume 6, Number 22, Syracuse, Kosciusko County, 25 September 1913 — Page 3

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SYNOPSIS. George Anderson and wife see * remarkable looking man come out -of ttxe Clermont hotel, look around furtively, wash his hands in the snow and pas» on. Commotion attracts them to the Clermont, where it is found that the beautiful Wss Edith Chailoner has fallen dead. AnderSt>n describes the man he saw wash his hands in the snow. The hotel manager declares him to be Orlando Brotherson. Physicians find that Miss Chailoner was stabbed and not shot, which seems to clear Brotherson of suspicion. Gryce. an aged detective, and Sweetwater, his assistant, take up the case. Mr. Chailoner tells of a batch of letters found In his daughter’s desk, signed “0- B. All are love letters except one. which shows tnat the writer was displeased. This was signed by Orjando Brotherson. Anderson goes with Sweetwater to identity Brothersen, who is found In a tenement under the name of Dunn. He is an in- 4 Ventor. Brotherson tells the coroner Miss Challoner repulsed him with scorn when he offered her his love. Sweetwater recalls the mystery of the murder of a washerwoman in which some details were laimilar to the Chailoner affair. Challoiier admits his daughter was deeply Interested. if not In love with Brotherson. Sweetwater gets lodgings In the same .building with Brotherson. He watches "the inventor at work at night and is detected by the latter. The detective moves to a room adjoining Brotherson’s. He bores a hole in the wall to spy on Brotherson. He visits him and assists the inventor in his work. A girl sent by Sweetwater with Edith Chailoner's letters Is ordered out by Brotherson. He declares the letters were not written by him. Sweetwater is unmasked by Brotherson. who declares he recognized him at once. The discovery is made that the letters signed “Oi B.” were written by two different men. Sweetwater goes to Derby In search of the second “O. 8..” whom he expects to locate through one Doris Scott, mentioned In the letters. She is found acting as nurse for Oswald Brotherson. who is critically sick and calls the name of Edith In his delirium. CHAPTER XXlV.—Continued. His rise had been rapid. He had come from the east three years before. new to the work, Now, he was the one man there. Os his relationships east, family or otherwise, nothing was said. For them his life began and ended in Derby, and Sweetwater could see, though no actual expression was given to the feeling, that there was but one expectation la regard to him and Doris, to whose uncommon beauty and sweetness they all seemed fully alive. And Sweetwater wondered, as many of us have wondered, at the gulf frequently existing between fancy and fact. Later there came a small excitement. The doctor was seen riding by on his way to the sick man. From the window where he sat, Sweetwater •watched him pass up the street and take the road he had himself so lately traversed. And so an hour—two hours passed. Others were watching the old horse now. The street showed many an eager figure with head turned northward. From the open doorways women stepped, looked in the direction of their anxiety and retreated to their work again. Suspense was everywhere; the moments dragged like hours. A sudden change took place in the aspect of the street; he saw people running, and in another moment saw why. The doctor had shown himself on the porch which all were watching. Was he coming out? No, he stands quite still, runs his eye over the people waiting quietly in the road, and beckons to one of the smaller boys. The child, with upturned face, stands I’stening to what he has to say, then starts on a run for the village. Hie is stopped, pulled about, questioned, and allowed to run on. Many rush forth to meet him. He is Ranting, but gleeful. Mr. Brotherson has waked up conscious, and the doctor says, “He will live." CHAPTER XXV. ’ The Oval Hut. That night Dr. Fenton had a visitor. Sweetwater, who knew when to be trank and open, as well as when to be reserved and ambiguous, made no effort to disguise the nature of his business or his chief cause of interest tn Oswald Brotherson. His first word, therefore, was a plain announcement. “Dr. Fenton, my name is Sweetwater. lam from New York, and represent for the nonce, Mr. Chailoner, whose name I have simply to mention, for you to understand that my business is with Mr. Brotherson, whom I am sorry to find seriously, if not dangerously ill. Will you tell me how long you think it will be before I can have a talk with him on a subject which I will not disguise from you may prove a very exciting one?" “Weeks, weeks,” returned the doctor. “Mr. Brotherson has been a very Bick man and the only hope I have i of his recovery is the fact that he is Ignorant of his trouble or that he has any cause for doubt or dread. What then, if any intimation should be given him of the horrible tragedy Suggested by the name you have mentioned? The man would die before jrotir eyes. Mr. Chailoner’s business will have to wait." “That I see; but if I knew when I might speak—” “I can give you no date. You had better return to New York. Later, you can write me if you wish, or Mr. Chailoner can. You may have confi; dence in my reply; it will not mislead you.” Sweetwater muttered his thanks and rose. Then he slowly sat down again. “Dr. Fenton,” he began, “?<)U are a , man to be trusted. I’m in a devil of a •x, and there is Just a possibility that you may be able to help me out. It is the general impression In New Tork, as you know, that Miss Challoner committed suicide. But the cir•mnstances do not fully bear out this theory, nor can Mr. Chailoner be made to accept it Indeed, he Is so convinced of its falsehood, that he stands >eady to do anything, pay anything, puffer anything, to have this distressgif blight removed from his daughter’s goad name. Mr. Brotherson wgs

her dearest friend, and as such may have the clew to this mystery, but Mr. Brotherson may not be in a condition to speak for several weeks. Meanwhile. Mr. Chailoner must suffer from great suspense unless —’’ a pause during which he searched the doctor’s face with a perfectly frank and inquiring expression—“unless some one else can help us out Dr. Fenton, can you?” The doctor did not need to speak; his expression conveyed his answer. “No more than another," said hp. “Except for what Doris felt compelled to tell me, I know as little as yourself. Mr. Brotherson’s delirium took the form of calling continually upon one name. I did not know this name, but Doris did, also the danger lurking in the fact that he had yet to hear of the tragedy which had robbed him of this woman to whom he was so deeply attached. So she told me just this much. That the Edith whose name rung so continuously in our ears was no other than the Miss Chailoner of New York of whose death and its tragic circumstances the papers have been full; that their engagement was a secret one unshared so far as she knew by any one but herself. That she begged me to preserve this secret and to give her all the help I could when the time came for him to ask questions. Especially did she entreat me to be with her at the crisis. I was. but his waking was quite natural. He did not ask for Miss Challoner; he only inquired how long he had been ill and whether Doris had received a letter during that time. She had not received one, a fact which seemed to disappoint him; but she carried it off so gaily (she is a wonderful girl, Mr. Sweetwater —the darling of all our hearts), saying that he*must not be so egotistical as to think that the news of his illness had gone beyond Derby, that he soon recovered his spirits and became a very promising convalescent. That is all I know about the matter; little more, I take it, than you know yourself." Sweetwater nodded; he had expected nothing from the doctor, and was not disappointed at his failure. There were two strings to his bow, and the one proving valueless, he proceeded to test the other. “You have mentioned Miss Scott, as the confidante and only confidante of this unhappy pair,” said he. “Would it be possible—can you make it possible for me to see her?” It was a daring proposition; he understood this at once from the doctor’s expression; and, fearing a hasty rebuff, he proceeded to supplement his request with a few added arguments, urged with such unexpected address and show of reason that Dr. Fenton’s aspect visibly softened and in the end he found himself ready to promise that he would do what he could to secure his visitor the interview he desired if he would come to the house the next day at the time of his own morning visit. , This was as much as the young detective could expect, and having expressed his thanks, he took his leave in anything but a discontented frame* of mind. In the time which must elapse between that happy hour and the present, he would circulate and learn what he could about the prospective manager. But he soon found that he could not enter the Works without a permit, and this he was hardly-in a position to demand; so he strolled about the village instead, and later wandered away into the forest. Struck by the inviting aspect of a narrow and little used road opening from the highway shortly above the house where his Interests were just BUI Fl 1 i Me—r ■' « A Nearer View Increased His Curiosity. then centered, he strolled into the heart of the spring woods till he came to a depression where a surprise awaited him, in the shape of a peculiar structure rising from its midst where it just fitted, or so nearly fitted that one could hardly walk about it without brushing the surrounding tree trunks. Os an oval shape, with its door facing the approach, it nestled there, a wonder to the eye and the occasion of considerable speculation to his Inquiring mind. It had not been long built, as was shown very plainly by the fresh appearance of the unpainted boards of which it was constructed; and while it boasted of a door, as I’ve already said, there, were uo evidences vtoibfe of any other break in the smooth, neatly finished alls. A wooden ellipse with a roof . ut no windows; such it appeared and such it proved to be. A mystery to Sweetwater’s «gr«K and Mka all

INITIALS ONLY ANNA KATHARINE GDEEN AUTHOR OP “THE LEAVENWORTH CASE* ’’THE FILIGREE HOOSE Os THE WHISPERING ILLUSTRATIONS DY CHARLES .W. ROSSER

teries, interesting. For what purpose had it been built and why this isolation? It was too flimsy for a reservoir and too expensive for the wild freak of a crank. , A nearer view increased his curiosity. In the projection of the roof over the curving sides he found fresh food for inquiry. As he examined it in the walk he made around the whole structure, he came to a place where something like a hinge became visible and further on another. The roof was not simply a roof; it was also a lid capable of being raised for the air and light which the lack of windows necessitated. This was an odd discovery indeed, giving to the uncanny structure the appearance of a huge box, the cover of which could be raised or lowered at pleasure. And again he asked himself for what it could be intended? Nothing in his experience supplied him with an answer. A team was approaching. He could hear the heavy tread of horses working their laborious way through trees whose obstructing branches swished before and behind them. They were bringing in a load for fhls shed, whose uses he would consequently soon understand. Grateful for his good luck —for his was a curiosity which could not stand defeat—he took a few steps into the wood, and from the vantage point of a concealing cluster of bushes, fixed his eyes upon the spot where the road opened into the hollow. Something blue moved there, and in another moment, to his great amazement, there stepped into view the spirited form of Doris Scott, who if he had given the matter a thought he would have supposed to be sitting just then by the bedside of her patient, a half mile back on the road. She was dressed for the woods in a blue skirt and jacket and moved like a leader in front of a heavily laden wagon now coming to a standstill before the closely shut shed —if such we may call it. “I have a key,” so she caljed out to the driver who had paused for orders. “When I swing the doors wide, drive straight in." Sweetwater took a look at the wagon. It was piled high with large wooden boxes on more than one of which he could see scrawled the words: O. Brotherson, Derby, Pa. This explained her presence, but the boxes told nothing. They were of all sizes and shapes, and some of them so large that the assistance of another man was needed to handle them. Sweetwater was about to offer his services when a second man appeared from somewhere in the rear, and the detective’s attention being thus released from the load out of which he could make nothing, he allowed it to concentrate upon the young girl who had it in charge and who, for many reasons, was the one person of supreme importance to him. She had swung open the two wide doors, and now stood waiting for horse and wagon to enter. With locks flying free —she wore no bonnet —she presented a picture of everincreasing interest to Sweetwater. Truly she was a very beautiful girl, buoyant, healthy and sweet; as unlike as possible his preconceived notions of Miss Chailoner’s humble little protege. Her brown hair, of a rich chestnut hue, was in itself a wonder. Sweetwater watched her with admiration as she superintended the unloading of the wagon and the disposal of the various boxes on the floor within; but as nothing she said during the process was calculated to afford the least enlightenment in regard to their contents, he presently wearied of his inaction and turned back towards the highway, comforting himself with the reflection that in a few short hours he would have her to himself when nothing but a blunder on his part should hinder him from sounding her young mind and getting such answers to his questions as the affair in which he was simply interested, demanded. CHAPTER XXVI. Sweetwater Returns. “You see me again. Miss, Scott. I hope that yesterday’s intrusion has not prejudiced you against me." “I have no prejudices,” was her simple but firm reply. “I am only hurried and very anxious. The doctor is with Mr. Brotherson just now; but he has several other equally sick patients to visit and I dare not keep him here too long.” “Then you will welcome my abruptness. Miss Scott, here is a letter from Mr. Challoner. > It will explain my position. As you will see, his only desire is to establish the fact that his daughter did not commit suicide. You have seen Miss Challoner, I believe. Do you think she was the woman to plunge a dagger in her heart in a place as public as a hotel reception room ?’’ “No, Mr. Sweetwater. I saw her once and it made me want to be quiet and kind and beautiful like her. I never shall think she did anything so horrible. Nor will Mr. Brotherson ever believe it He could not and live. You see, I am talking to you as if you knew him—the kind of man he is and just how he feels towards Miss Challoner. He is—" Her voice trailed off and a look, uncommon and almost elevated, illumined her face. “I will not tell you what he is; you will know, if you ever see him.** Sweetwater watched her for a mo'ent, and then remarked: "I’m going take one thing for granted; that u are aa anxious as we are to clear iss Challoner’B memory.** -o raa. O rsa.”

“More than that, that you are ready and eager to help us. Your very looks show that.” “You are right; I would do anything to hefp you. But what can a girl like me do? Nothing; nothing. I know too little. Mr. Challoner must see that when you tell him I’m only the daughter of a foreman.” “And a friend of Mr. Brotherson." supplemented Sweetwater. “Yes,” she smiled, “he would want me to say so. But that’s his goodness. I don’t deserve the honor.” “His friend and therefore his confidante,” Sweetwater continued. “He has talked to you about Miss Challoner?” “He had to. There was nobody else to whom he could talk; and then, I had seen her and could understand.” “Where did you see her?” “In New York. I was there once with father, who took me to see her. I think she had asked Mr. Brotherson to send his little friend to her hotel if ever we came to New York.” “That was some time ago?” “We were there in June.” “And you have corresponded ever since with Miss Challoner?” “She has been good enough to write, and I have ventured at times to answer her." Smiling a little, but in a very earnest fashion, he pointed to the letter she still held and quietly said: “Remember that T ’m not speaking B El I - iii r I Dv J “Who Is That, Johnny?” for myself. Miss Scott, when I seem a little too persistent and inquiring. You have corresponded with Miss Challoner; you have been told the fact of her secret engagement to Mr. Brotherson and you have been witness to his conduct and manner for the whole time he has been separated from her. Do you. when you think of it carefully, recall anything in the whole story of this romance which would throw light upon the cruel tragedy which has so unexpectedly ended it? Anything, Miss Scott? Straws show which way the stream flows.” She was vehement, Instantly vehement, in her disclaimer. “I can answer at once,” said she. "because I have thought of nothing else for all these weeks. Here all was well. Mr. Brotherson was hopeful and happy and believed in her happiness and willingness to wait for his success. And this success was coming so fast! Oh, how can we ever tell him! How can we ever answer his questions even, or keep him satisfied and calm until he is strong enough to hear the truth. I’ve had to acknowledge already that I have had no letter from her for weeks. She never wrote to him directly, you know, and she never sent him messages, but he knew that a letter to me was also a letter to him and I can see that he is troubled by this long silence, though he says I was quite right not to let her know of his illness and that 1 must continue to keep her in ignorance of it till he is quite well again and can write to her Himself. It is hard to hear him talk like this and not look sad or frightened.” Sweetwater remembered Miss Challoner’s last letter, and wished he had it here to give her. In default of this, he said: “Perhaps this not hearing may act in the way of a preparation for the shock which must come to him sooner or later. Let us hope so, Miss Scott." Her eyes filled. “Nothing - can prepare him," said she. Then added, with a yearning accent, “I wish I were older or had more experience. I should not feel so helpless. But the gratitude I owe him will give me strength when I need it most. Only I wish the suffering might be mine rather than his.” Unconscious of any self-betrayal, she lifted her eyes, startling Sweetwater by the beauty of her look. “I don’t think t’m so sorry for Oswald Brotherson," he murmured to himself as he left her. “He’s a more fortunate man than he knows, however deeply he may feel the loss ot his first sweetheart” That evening the disappointed Sweetwater took the train for New York. He had failed to advance the case in hand one whit, yet the countenance he showed Mr. Gryce at their first interview was not a wholly gloomy one. “Fifty dollars to the bad!” was his first laconic greeting. “All I have learned is comprised in these two statements. The second O. B. is a fine fellow; and not intentionally the capse of our tragedy. He does not even know about it. He’s dewn with Jm fever at present and they haven't Mto U* Whan ha’a hattar era aar ■

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hear something; but I doubt even that" “Tell me about it” Sweetwater complied; and such Is the unconsciousness with which we often encounter the pivotal circumstance upon which our future or the future of our most cherished undertaking hangs, he omitted from his story the sole discovery which was of any real importance in the unraveling of the mystery in which they were so deeply concerned. He said nothing of his walk in the woods or of what he saw there. CHAPTER XXVII. The Image of Dread. In the comfortable little sittingroom of the Scott cottage Doris stood, looking eagerly from the window which gave upon the road. Behind her, on the other side of the room, could be seen through a partly opened door, a neatly spread bed, with a hand lying quietly on the patched coverlid. Several weeks had passed since the departure of Sweetwater and the invalid was fast gaining strength. Tomorrow, he would be up. Was Doris thinking of him? Undoubtedly, for her eyes often flashed his way; but her main attention was fixed upon the road, though no one was in sight at the moment. Some one had passed for whose return she looked; some one whom, if she had been asked to describe, she would have called a tall, fine-looking man of middle age, of a cultivated appearance seldom seen in this small manufacturing town, seldom seen, possiby, in any town. He had glaosed up at the window as he went bj, in a manner too marked not to excite her curiosity. Would h® look up again when he came back? She was waiting there to see. Why, she did not know. She was not used to indulging in petty suppositions of this kind, her life was toe busy, her anxieties too keen. The great dread looming ever before her —the dreaa of that hour when she must speak—left her very little heart for anything dissociated with this coming event J But her interest had been caught today, caught by this stranger, and when during her eager watch the small messenger from the Works came to the door with the usual daily supply of books and magazines for the patient, she stepped out on the porch to speak to him and to point out the gentleman who was now rap-’ idly returning from his stroll up the road. “Who is that. Johnny?” she asked. The boy looked, searched his memory, not without some show of misgiving. “A quepr name,” he admitted at last. Shally something. Shally— Shaily—” “Challoner?” “Yes, that’s it. How could you guess? He’s from New York. Don’t seem to have no business.” “Wellrnever mind. Run on, Johnny. And don’t forget to come earlier tomorrow; Mr. Brotherson gets tired waiting.” “Does he? I’ll come quick then; quick as I can run.” And he sped off at a pace which promised well for the morrow. Challoner! There was hut one Challoner in the world for Doris ScottEdith’s father. Was this he? It must be, or why this haunting sense of something half remembered as she caught a glimpse of his face. Edith’s father! and he was approaching, approaching rapidly, on his way back to town. She had not closed the door; something within—a hope or a dread —had prevented that. Would he take it as an invitation to come in? No, no; she was hot ready for such an encounter yet. He might speak Edith’s name; Oswald might hear and—with a gasp she recognized the closeness of

aaiZßsa whzi mebm wengw Prove Cycles of Fashion C

Argument That Has Long been Made Seems Substantiated by Excavations in Crete. Announcement that the excavations in Crete for the University of Pennsylvania have brought to light fragments of an ancient civilization which show that women of that island wore corsets and hobble-skirts 5,000 years ago is Interesting as a matter of archaeology; hut it is nothing new. la fact, it has been developed long since that even in the classic times of Greece the graceful garment shown In statuary and painting was a conventionality of art rather than a fashion of the time. Woman, it seems, has ever delighted in styles that change with the seasons and with the years, but return again in cycles that appear to have had no beginning and to approach to no end. She and her clothing are the joint symbols of the truth that nothing is 80 immutable as mutability. It is questionable, however, whether the women or the youth of the world ever subordinated their own tastes to the whims and absurdities of foreign fashion makers. Was it ever the vogue in Crete to wear the styles of Babylon or of ThebesT As some bold hearts are striving in this country to develop an American fashion opposed to that of Paris, that is the

his step; heard it lag, almost halt 1 just where the path to the house ran into the roadside. But it passed on CHAPTER XXVIIt. —>■ I Hope Never to See That Man. Mr. Challoner continued to past the house twice a day and the time finally came when he ventured up the walk. Doris was in the window and t>aw him coming. She slipped softly and intercepted him before he Lad stepped upon the porch. “Miss Scott?” he asked. “Yes, Mr. Challoner.” “You know me?” he went on, ona foot on the step and one still on the walk. Before replying she closed the door behind her. Then as she noted his surprise she carefully explained: “Mr. Brotherson, our boarder, is just recovering from typhoid. He is still weak and acutely susceptible to the least noise. I was afraid that our voices might disturb him. Do you mind walking a little way up the road? That is, if your visit was intended for me.” Her flush, the beauty which must have struck even him, but more than all else her youth, seemed to reconcile him to this unconventional request. Bowing, he took his foot from the step, saying, as she joined him: “Yes, you are the one I wanted to see; that is, today. Later, I hope to have the privilege of a conversation with Mr. Brotherson.” She gave him one quick look, trembling so that he offered her his arm with a fatherly air. "I see that you understand my errand here,” he proceeded, with a grave smile, meant as she knew for her encouragement. “I am glad, because we can go at once to the point Miss Scott,” he continued in a voice from which he no longer strove to keep hack the evidences of deep feeling, “I have the strongest interest in your patient that one man can have in another, where there Is no personal acquaintanceship. You who have every reason to understand my reasons for this, will accept the statement. I hope, as frankly as it is made.” She nodded. Her eyes were full of tears, but she did not hesitate to raise them. “When I lost my daughter, I lost e-v erything,” he declared, as they walked slowly lup the road. “Nothing excites my interest, save that which once ex cited hers,. I am told that the deep est interest of her life lay here. lam also told that it was an interest quit® worthy of her. I expect to find it so I hope with all my heart to find it so and that is why I have come to this town and expect to linger till Mr Brotherson has recovered sufficiently to see me. I hope that this will b® agreeable to him. I hope that I sirnot presuming too much in cherishing these expectations. Doris turned her candid eyes upon him. (TO BE CONTINUED.) This Girl’s Number Is 7, Should it ever be necessary for th® little daughter of David B. Glass of Marshallton to choose a lucky number there is no doubt that seven will be her choice. It already has played a prominent part in her life. The child was born on the seventh day of the week, the seventh day of the month and the seventh month of the year. She was seven months old on the seventh day of February and weighed seven pounds. She is the seventh grandchild. Her mother’s age is five times seven, her father’s age is six times seven and her grandmother’s age is eight times seven. An only living brother is in his seventh year. There are just seven letters in the child’s name. —Wilmington correspondence Philadelphia Press.

question American archaeologists should strive to solve. Concluding that Cretan ruins bear witness to the durability of the corset, may they not also give encouragement to the hope that it was not always worn as a straight front? Listen! Say the Girts. What’s the master with the girls these days? Can’t they hold the attention of any one? Is it necessary to keep repeating the word “listen” in an ordinary talk where the "talkee" is all attention? A miss of perhaps 17 years asked for a certain brand of face powder in a drug store recently. This is a fair account of what she said: “Listen! I want a box of yuh face powder. Listen! Do you keep that there kind that comes with —with a mirror? You know the kind I mean. Listen! What shade do you think I need? Is Raychel (Rachey) too dark? Listen ” That was as much as I heard, says a writer in the New York Sun, But it was enough. If a girl has a toothache or a wart os har finger or a headache, it is “Listen, listen, listen.” to the patient or in many cases Impatient drug clerk. No miss, it seems, considers her vocabufcry up to date unless it is burdened with ’listen.** Girls, take a tip. Pwt "Hatsa” oaths aWt

I Man’s Thoughts:: | vs « I | God’s Thoughts | ? By REV. J. H. RALSTON § Y Secretary of Coneapoadeoca Department X X Moody Bible institute. Chicago X TEXT—Is. 55:7—“Let the unrighteous man forsake his thoughts."

This appeal seems strange, for Christianity insists on its rationality, and rationality implies thinking. God says, “Come, let us reason together, though your sins be as scarlet they shall be as white as ’ snow, though they be red like crimson they shall be as wool.’’ Jesus asked the

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question, what think ye of Christ? There must be some reconciliation between this claim oj reason and the text. In the first place we must have in mind the person receiving the appeal —he is unrighteous. He may be contrasted with the wicked man referred to in the same verse, but the matter of his unrighteousness, or unregenerateness is the thing now to be held in mind. Then we must consider the sphere of thought. The man is not asked to forsake all his thinking, for in some things his thoughts are correct, indeed, more correct than those of the righteous man. Those things belong to the unregenerate state and he thinks rightly on them. Ministers sometimes preach to their congregations on subjects that are not spiritual, and many that are in the pews know far more about the subject than the preacher, and often smile at his Ignorance. The unrighteous man thinks quite properly on finance, commerce and politics, but when it comes to spiritual things he is out of his realm. Here the person who may be of very limited intellectual attainments may be his instructor. The African or Korean may know far more of spiritual things, because born again, than the educated European. Thus we find that the appeal is to the unrighteous person, and the sphere of thought is the spiritual. Here is where the unrighteous man is asked not to think. . And why ? The words of the lord, “My thoughts are not your thoughts" imply that there is some unfavorable comparison between the thoughts of the lord and those of unregenerate man. God’s thoughts are certainly always right. If this be true, man’s thoughts are certainly wrong. When man stands naked before God this fact will be demonstrated to the confusion of mulI tltudes. I We may also say the unrighteous i man should forsake his thoughts bei cause they have been shown to be I’ usually wrong. That man has some quite correct thoughts in the spiritual sphere may be conceded, or responsi- . billty would be lessened, but the law i of his thinking Is wrong. Habitually his thoughts are wrong. A comparison of man’s thoughts and those of the lord as given in the Bible clearly 1 demonstrates this. When Jesus was on earth he said to the Pharisees that they thought in their prayers they should be heard for their much speaking. that is, a prayer 20 minutes long was twice as good as one ten minutes long. The Bible declares that men thought God to be as one of themselves. Simon Magus thought -that the gift of the holy spirit could be had for money, and the apostle pronounced a fearful curse on him. He has successors In these days. Naaman furnishes us an illustration of how men think as to the conditions of redemption. He thought that the prophet Elisha would come out and call on his God and pass his hand over the place of the leprosy—but nothing of the kind. He was simply instructed by the prophet, who did not seem overwhelmed with the great Syrian’s magnificence, to dip seven times in the Jordan, and his flesh should be as that of a little child. How squarely are man’s thoughts on redemption opposed to God’s simple requirement to repent and believe! Again, as long as man Is unregen- 4 erate he has a principle in him that vitiates all right thinking on spiritual subjects. Here it may be said sin lieth at the door. The stream cannot be pure if the fountain is Loul. One of the tests of a man’s regenerate state is his changed thinking on spiritual subjects. He sees things ently. a new world has been opened to him. He often wonders why he did not see things as he now sees them. His unrighteousness explains this difficulty. Another reason for forsaking. his thoughts is that he is wasting time in doing that which has already been done, even conceding that he thinks rightly. One may ask in wonder, am I not to think this religious problem out for myself? No. It has already been thought out, and the record is in the Bible. Some one may say this intimates ready-made thinking, and ready-made things are to be suspected. We do not suspect a suit of clothes ready to be put bn if purchased at a reputable store, nor a piece of furniture, nor prepared foods. This is an age of ready-made things, and if we have the guaranty that the maker is reliable we may be content God has thought all these things out No man could have done It. No man ever evolved, anything that even intimated the way of redemption through a substitute such as Jesus Christ is proclaimed to he. There is not a thing about sin, redemption, or man’s origin, nature, • possibilities, that is not clearly proclaimed in ths Bible. Let man take God’s thinking and no disappointment awaits him.| It is a mistake not to take things seriously enough, but it is also a mistake, and sometimes a greater one, to take them too seriously.