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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