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24 , TH1
i The Family
THE WAY.
Oh' the days are dreary.
And uiy feet are weary.
As 1 climb the rugged steep.
And I must confess,
Though with bitterness,
Mv han.-ta oom ? ~ * -*
?? ? ?>vui suii'6 i-o sieep
I am* tired of caring,
How others are faring,
I want them to care for me.
I am truly believing,
1 hero is no retrieving,
The uunian wrecks I see.
So I go on weaving,
These doubts deceiving,
And when I the sum do add,
I find I am grieving,
Instead of receiving,
The Spirit I might have had.
How I am thinking,
I might have been drinking,
Of the Water of Life so free,
But while my throat was parching,
As I was onward marching,
I would not the waters see.
So, instead of repining.
And my soul confining,
Behind the dark clouds of doubt.
I'll remember the lining.
Where the silver is shining.
Thus I'll the doubt demon rout.
And I'll go on rejoicing,
My Savior's praise voicing,
As I tell the glad stor;- of love.
O: 'tis joy to be caring,
How others are faring,
When I talk of the F.tme up above.
Susanna.
A HASTY JUDGMENT.
By Sydney Dayre.
"Hnur wr-.11 fr?nr " * J
..w <* V?* ,IUUI piauuj 1UUIV, t>21IU.
Esther Ward, one of Janet's friends, coming
up on the porch, where she was seated
with her aunt, to look at them.
"How is your double crimson geranium
getting along?"
"I haven't one of those, Lou. I've been
wishing for one."
"You haven't one? Why, I am surprised."
"What is there surprising about that?"
"One day, about two weeks ago, I went
in to Miss Vale's "
"Yes, she has a beautiful one. She
promised to slip one for me."
"Exactly. She did."
"I hadn't heard of it."
"That is the part of it that surprises
me. Emily Garde was there, and Miss
Vale gave her a double white one. And
she asked her if she would bring to
you, as sne doesn't often see you, that
is, Miss Vale doesn't?a geranium?that
lovely dark crimson. It was in a little
pot, growing nicely, and just promising to
blossom."
"I have never seen it," said Janet.
"looks queer, doesn't it? Well, goodbye."
Janet turned to her aunt with a flushed
face.
"Did you hear that, Aunt Rachel"?
"I heaid !hat Lmlly had r.ot yet given
I PRESBYTERIAN OF THE SOUT
V
you the geranium. She is out of town,
isn't she?"
?'es, lor nearly two weeks. Dut, auntie,
ihere s more about it. Tne day before
she went away she brought me this white
geranium, telling me that it was from
Miss Vale."
i nut is a nine strange. How do you
account for it?"
"There is only one way to account for
t. What can there be to it except that
the wanted the crimson geranium and?
tept it, putting this white one off on me?"
"I don't think I would fully conclude
that until you see Emily."
"But, Aunt Rachel," said Janet, with a
flush of anger deepening on her face,
"what difference can that make, if Esther
tells a straight story, and there is no
reason to suppose that she does not?
How mean and deceitful of her. 1 am
going to wiite and tell her what 1 think
of her."
"I wouldn't, dear."
"Why not? She deserves it."
"Be sure she does first. And even
i.cu u ui e sure, ue careiui wnat you
write. Angry words spoken are tad
enough, but written ones are worse, for
they remain and bear their ugly witness
against you long after your anger is
over."
"I shall not get over it. I believed in
her. 1 didn't think she was capable of
doing a mean thing. I don't often see
Miss Vale, now that she is no longer our
teacher, and Emily thought she could
keep it among her plants and no one
would ever know. Well, I've done with
her."
In her. anger, as she bent over her
stand 01 plants, their loveliness made
no appeal to her. A tuft of white blossoms
smiled up at her, and it was all
she could do to avoid crushing it with
a cruel nand. But she restrained the
hateful impulse and turned away.
"I had a friend," began Aunt Rachel.
"And did she ever treat you as mine
has treated me?"
"No, but there was a time when 1 was
very angry wiui her."
"And did you get over it? I know I
never shall."
Aunt Rachel was silent for a few moments,
then went on:
"I suffered tnrough it far more than
you will be likely to suffer through
yours."
"Oh, I'm not going to let it make me
suffer," said Janet. "I shall just let her
know when she comes home that 1 have
nad enough of her."
"When my dearest girl friend and 1
went to the same school, we lived in the
suburbs of a city. To go into it by train
was a great treat, and one that came to
us but rarely. But when a married sister
of Jessie's moved into the city, the dear
girl was full of talk about the lovely times
it would mean for us two. So one morning
sue came to me for a plan to spend
the TlPVt /lav lr* f/vwn \A7~ ? *- ?
~?j .u wnu. ytc were to go in
by an early train, visit art galleries, and
everything else delightful that came in
our way.
" 'Be sure you're In good time,' was her
parting injunction. I obeyed it, expecting
to be met at the station by Jessie's bright
face.
"But she was not there, and I waited,
at tirst tranquilly, then, as the train time
quickly came, in nervous impatience. You
H. May 26, 1909.
may imagine the feelings with which I
saw the train draw up.
"I waited a little while, still expecting
ner, and ready with my reproacaes ior
her lateness. At length I went home, my
heart raging with such anger and disappointment
as I dq not like to remember.
"It always seems to me," after a short
pause, she went on contemplatively, "that
we can not allow a storm of evil feeling
to have its hateful way in our hearts and
be ever quite the same. We can repent
and resolve against sinning again, but
oi.cci nig, scorcning name must leave
its result.
"It was a long way to Jessie's, but I
would not have gone to her if it had been
close by. There could oe no extenuation
for the way in which she had treated me.
If she could not come she might have
sent me word.
"I went home and wrote a letter?
wrote to my dearest friend an outpour of
the anger which filled my heart. I sent
it, and i-ien, in a multitude of new interests
which crowded on me, it almost
passed from my mind.
"All the summer my father had been
cherishing a plan of taking us for a
month's outing in the mountains. Opportunity
for his getting away suddenly offered,
and alter hurried preparations, we
left home the next day. At the last I
begged one of my school friends to write
me. But we were moving from one pteasant
place to another, and her hrst letter
missed and never found me. Her second
1 opened with a little snifT of anger for
her neglect. I read it and felt my heart
Leat slower."
"What was it. Aunt Rachel?"
"Sue referred to a former letter, saying
something like this: 'As 1 told von
of Jessie's sudden seizure two weeks ago,
and how bad it was, you will not be mucu
surprised to hear that they have given up
all hope for her life.'"
"Oh. Aunt Rachel!"
"There was more to It, speaking of the
brain fever which was sapping the dear
young life, of her mother's despair, etc.
"Well, well, Janet, you may imagine
how I felt. In the shadow of the terrible
facts, how small, how contemptible
seemed the ugly feeling based on the
disappointment of a day. We had no
more letters, going from place to place,
I, with a heavy cloud on my heart. 1 had
lost my best friend, but the worst bitterness
did not lie in that. 1 had been indulging
in my anger against her while
she had been suffering?dying "
"Oh, dear!" Janet gave a little sigh.
"As I .uought." I
' flH f" j ?
Dtwu janei, with an inquiring
smile, as she went on:
"As we drove from the station the carriage
would pass by Jessie's home. 1
had turned away my head in a paroxysm
of misery when I heard a cry of delight
from my younger sister.
" 'Why?there's Jessie!'
"There she was, sure enough, sitting at
a window in an invalid chair, pale and
thin, but turning her dear face toward
us with a smile of greeting. Before long
B^e was able to see me and tell me of
her sudden seizure the morning on which
I had been looking for her at the station.
She had sent mo >
?> mcoonge, w men some
one had neglected to deliver. So that I
.was the grievance I had been nursing."
"You wrote a letter "
"It was some time before my mind was