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urgent invitation to visit her. She had stay
ed closely at home. She must make a break,
and this would be a good way to do it.
One day in S ,as she and her cousin
were shopping, Annis noticed a certain
something in Kate’s manner. She won
dered, until she picked up a play-bill off
the counter. Her heart almost stopped
beating—it was the announcement of her
old troupe. The familiar names were
there—except the soprano, Mlle. Lazette
Latour.
Annis was all at once determined to go.
She insisted upon “treating” her ccusin.
Her voice and manner were so natural, she
deceived even Kate. They had decided
to go, when, at the lastmoment, Kate’s old
enemy—neuralgia—seized upon her, and
she had to give up.
“What a shame, and I can’t even talk
to you!” moaned Kate.
“I believe I will go, if you can send the
carriage for me,” said Annis, with sudden
courage.
And so, that night, a beautiful, quietly
dressed young woman, sat in one of the
boxes of the opera house, watching the.
stage with painful intensity.
The new soprano was a large, fine
looking brunetfe, but alas I not a note
could Annis hear. The tenor was there.
The ordeal was more trying than Annis
had supposed it would be, but she gave no
sign. So much of the past came to her
mind, and with it the little scene of Alber
ta Karl’s sick room. She wondered what
had become of Dr. Gerhardt. She had
thought of him not a little the past few
months, when she had had so much time
for thought.
During the intermission, she was star
tled by a gentleman taking the seat by
her. She looked up and a little cry of
surprise almost escaped her. For there
was Paul Gerhardt smiling and saying
something to her.
Annis drew her tablets from her pocket,
and said at once as she extended them:
“I am quite deaf—have you not heard ?
but I am very glad to meet you again.”
She watched his face—first bewilder
ment, and then, was it possible? it was
followed by one of glad relief. It was so
fleeting that even as she noted and resented
it, it changed to one of quiet yet sincere
sympathy.
He wrote: “I had not heard of your
misfortune. It may not be incurable, yet,
even for a time, it is a great trial. 1 came
here to-night expecting to see and hear
you, as I’ve actually been too busy to read
the bills. lam practicing here.”
Annis had heard, long since, of Alberta’s
death. They talked of many things ; and,
to Annis’ reiief, it was, apparently, the
most natural thing in the world for Paul
to write, in his plain large penmanship.
"When he left her. he had made an ap
pointment to call the next morning.
“A strange time for such a busy man to
call,” Annis thought.
Kate was not yet up, next day, when Dr.
Gerhardt’s card was sent up to Miss Dale.
But Annis felt disappointed. He had
seemed so natural and entertaining the
night before, and now for the first time
in all their acquaintance, was constrained
and ill at ease. Finally he seized the tab
let and wrote rapidly.
Annis read, with a strangely beating
heart, the words: “After all my patient
waiting lam now rashly abrupt. I have
loved you ever since that day in Alberta
Karl’s sick room. I determined with all
the strength of mind I could claim, not to
speak to you while you had such a future
before you, and I had so little to offer you.
I am not rich now, but I am doing well,
and oh, Annis, my darling, I will take
such care of you;love you more than 1
have all these years, I could not.”
“I could not allow such a sacrifice,”
Annis tried to speak quietly.
Again the pencil moved: “Oh Annis, I
tried not to feel glad when I learned your
trouble. Don’t hate me, but it gave me
such unlooked-for hope, and I’ve loved and
worked for you so long.”
As Annis met the look in Paul’s face, so
like the one she could not bear that night,
long ago, Herr Henschel’s words came like
a flash into the girl’s mind.
“But your sweetheart in Germany,” she
stammered.
Such a puzzled look as passed over Paul
Gerhardt’s face, and then it brightened,
and he looked as if he could with difficulty
check a laugh.
He wrote: “That is Herr Henschel’s
blunder. His mind was full of my broth
er, and he mixed us up in his puny En
glish. My poor brother is pining for a
German maid—l am content with an
American.”
It. was of no use for Annis to remonstrate.
Such tricks does the little god play I
Years passed before she recovered her
hearing, though her husband left nothing
undone in all that time. But when her sec
ond child was three years old, Annis’ great
blessing of hearing returned to her, as
suddenly as it had left her. Her voice is
sweet and true, but now only her family
and friends enjoy its music.
For Woman’s Work.
CHRISTMAS NIGHT IN STONY
CROFT.
BY SHILOH PAYNE LANGFORD.
It was a small Western village, com
posed of not more than four hundred
houses, but situated in the centre of a
thickly settled farming country. The town
had been made notorious during the past
year, by the deeds of wickedness which
had been perpetrated in its midst.
Drunken carousals were held nightly,
filling the sweet night air with hideous
revelry.
At the spring election, license had been
voted in, so as to furnish the town with
gravelled roads. They must have gravel
led roads, they were a positive neces
sity ; and what cheaper way to get them
than this?
“If men will drink, let them pay dear
for it. They will get it somewhere, and
why not at home ? We had as well derive
the benefit from it as some other town.
We believe in home interests—why not
have our own saloons? ”
Thus the men reasoned, never once
counting up the number of young souls
that would be lured into those dens—sim
ply because they were so handy, and had
been licensed by the men of the town ; re
sponsible men, who knew what they were
about, and many of them church members,
tool
They secured their gravelled roads, and
they were splendid. And why should they
not be, for what is better than human
blood? And this is what fastened the
gravel to the dirt roadbed. If the pebbles
could have cried out, the story they would
have told of broken hearts and ruined
homes, would have made the traveler over
these roads, flee for bis very life.
What had once been a quiet, and, seem-,
ingly, a God-fearing community, was now
a torrent of wickedness; and an unseen
spirit going from home to home, would
have heard the pitiful cries of little chil
dren for bread that was not in the
house; and would have seen them shrink
away and hide, with looks of fear and even
scorn on their little faces, at the sound of
their fathers’ staggering footsteps, ap
proaching the house. And the mothers of
these helpless little ones: who can imagine,
let alone describe, the heart agonies they
suffered in seeing the man they had gone
so proudly to the altar with, putting him
selt. not on a level with, but below the
brutes of creation.
And to know that, probably, he will in
time murder them all; for has he not often
threatened it, and even tried it?
Tbe heart of that unseen spirit would
have been broken, and it would have sped
on its way heavenward, weeping tears of
blood for the human anguish it could not
assuage.
I believe if every young man who starts
out on this path of drunkenness, would sit
down and think solemnly over his whole
future life; of how the time will come to
him, as it comes to all men, to love some
woman, and if she marry him and little
children grow up around them; and the
time comes when they lift their hands and
cry forbread, and are given a stone: in
fancy he sees these little children. They
should have their happy, careless child
hood, but all semblance of childhood is
crushed out of them and they are old—old
in the very springtime of thuir lives,because
they are the children of a drunkard, and
they know to the fullest extent what the
words hunger, nakedness and brutality
mean. Afid then if he could see into the
heart of that wife; see how the love and
respect have changed to loathing and fear;
how she shudders at the sound of his un
even steps, and of the plans she lays to
shield the children from his drunken bru
tality I
But why say any more? Every man
knows that when he persists in drinking,
he throws away his manhood, (his chance
of making himself a man among men) in
this world, and his soul in the next—for
all eternity.
*****
In the little Methodist church had been
commenced a revival, on Thanksgiving
Day; it was now the week before
Christmas, and not a person had been
converted or manifested the least interest
in his soul’s welfare. The minister was
even hooted at, on the street; and nightly
a crowd of saloon loafers would gather
at or near the church door, crack jokes
and laugh in a boisterous way, so as to di
vert the attention of the few in the church
from the services.
But the pastor held out bravely and an
nounced that he would hold the services
straight on through the Christmas time,
and he believed his faithfulness would be
rewarded. There were some who joined
with him earnestly and prayed fervently
that God would bless them. There were
others, and good people too, who said
enough was enough; and as there was but
one Christmas in the year, they wanted it
to enjoy in their own way and not feel com
pelled to attend church all the time. But
these the minister pretended not to hear,
and kept his face Zionward, and his heart
in constant prayer.
*****
It is Christmas night? There had been
a slight attempt at decorating the church—
a few evergreens hung suspended from the
chandaliers and over the windows. The
church was full; a great number had come
out of curiosity, to see what this man
would do, who was determined, as one big
fellow inelegantly said, “To hang on till
the last dog died.”
Some, urged on by the saloon keepers,
had come to try to break up the meeting.
The few faithful—the praying band—
were gathei ed in front, close to the altar.
They all seemed to feel a crisis had been
reached, and a change must come on that
night. The minister, whose hair was white
as snow, arose in the pulpit, after the open
ing services, and gave as his text, Rev.,
xxi: 4:
“And God shall wipe away all tears from their
eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither
sorrow nor crying, neither shall there be any
more pain; for the former things are passed
away.’’
Christ, the Holy One, whose birthday it
was, and whose cause he was espousing so
bravely, surely filled his heart with Divine
love, and touched his tongue with the Di
vine fire that night; for such a sermon had
never been heard in all that region before.
It almost seemed as though a glory shone
round him, so far above all earthly things
did he seem lifted. When he ceased ; and
asked if there were any who felt an in
terest in their souls, to come forward, or at
least to stand at their seats, not one moved;
but it was not from lack of interest, for
here and there could be seen white, drawn
faces, or eyes that filled with tears, or arms
folded tightly across the breast as though
to smother some emotion within; occasion
ally, could be seen one grasping the bench
to hold himself down. Some sat slightly
bent forward, as if starting for the throne
of Grace, but held back by invisible hands.
They were not all affected alike, but it was
plain to be seen that there was not a soul
in that house but that was touched in
some way.
After a prayer and another song, the
preacher came to the edge of the platform
and, with the tears streaming from his eyes,
but in a clear voice, read from the Bible
these words:
“And the angel said unto them, Fear not, for
behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy,
which shall be to all people. For unto you is
born this day, in the city of David, a Saviour,
which is Christ the Lord.”
Then, so great was his intensity of feel
ing—he painted his word pictures with such
vividness—it seemed to the people listening
to him that they were with him on that far
Judean plain, listening to that angel choir
telling of the wondrous birth, and sing
ing, “Glory to God in the highest, and on
earth, peace, good will toward men.”
Peace and good will toward men—those
two things struck home. Then they were
in that stable, and the dear Christ child
was before them, lying in the manger,
wrapped in the swaddling clothes, with
the halo above His head, and the holy light
on His innocent face. Then they followed
Him on that journey to Egypt to escape
the wicked Herod; and the whole air was
filled with the cries of “Rachel mourning
for her children, and would not be com
forted because they were not.”
It seemed to them as though they were
with him through every scene and act of
that grand and holy lite. When he told of
the scene in the garden of Gethsemane,
and of the terrible agony—agony so awful
that it caused Him to sweat great drops ot
blood ; and of that cry: “Father, all things
are possible unto thee, take away this cup
from me; nevertheless not what I will,
but what thou wilt,” the stillness was so
intense a pin could have been heard to drop
anywhere in the ehurch.
Then came the crucifixion, and he open
ed his Bible again and read: “Greater
love hath no man than this, that a man
lay down his life for his friend.”
“Aye I no love could be greater than this
to lay down his life for his friends.” J ust
see Him nailed on yonder cross—cruel
nails stuck through His tender hands and
feet; and the mob taunting Him, the Holy
One, and then hear Him cry: ‘Father for
give them for they know not what they do.’
Oh the Divinity of the man that could for
give those who had doomed Him to such a
death I
“Close at the foot of the cross kneels
Mary, His mother; the human mother.
Heart wrung with torture inexpressible at
seeing her son hanging there; but see, He
has not forgotten her. Pointing to John
He says, ‘Mother behold your son,’ and to
Mary, ‘Son, behold your mother.’
“We cannot conceive of the anguish He
must have endured while hanging there,
with the weight of the sins of the whole
world on His shoulders. Not only those
who lived then, but the millions who have
followed, and will follow till the end of time.
“And when He died, the rocks were rent
in twain ; the graves opened and the dead
that were in them came forth; the world
was darkened, and tbe veil of the temple
was rent in twain. But on the third day
He arose—the tomb could not hold Him,
and after a short time He ascended up in
to heaven, from whence
“The son of man shall come in his glory, and
all the holy angels with him, to judge all people
both living ana dead; giving to the righteous life
eternal, while to the wicked, eternal punish
ment.”
“And now my dear ones, will you allow
that death to have been in vain so far as
you are concerned? Will you not com
memorate this, His birthday, by starting
forth in a new and holy lite?"
When he finished speaking, great sobs
could be heard all over that church; then
from one place and another they arose and
went forward, till nine young ladies knelt
at the altar—the pastor’s own Sunday
school class. Then from the centre of the
church rose a tall man—one of the saloon
keepers,and a man noted for his infidelity—
and started hurriedly for the door; but be
fore he could reach it he fell on his knees
in the aisle, while the cry: “Lord have
mercy on me, a sinner,” rang through the
church. In a few minutes the altar was
filled, and the aisles were full-of kneeling
forms, and heads were bowed all over that
church, all seeking the Christ who washed
away the sins ot the world. It was a
second day of Pentecost; such an outpour
ing of the spirit.as was witnessed that night,
is seldom seen or heard of.
Before that week was out, the whole town
was changed. Part of the saloon keepers
were converted; the rest were given to
understand that they must go into some
other business or quit the town.
And by New Year’s night the town was
purged of its evil doers. They were going
to start the New Year with a clean sheet.
The town was filled with happy homes;
and women whose faces, less than two
weeks ago were white and sad, were be
ginning to light up with hope and happi
ness once more.
A watch meeting had been held in the
church, and the Old Year rung out; now
they were ringing in the New Year with
joyous peals. As the pastor went up his
steps he turned at the door, and, looking up
into the glorious heavens, with head bared
reverently, as if saluting a young king, he
repeated:
“Ring out the old, ring in the new—
Ring happy bells across the snow.
The year is going, let him go;
Ring out the false, ring in the true.
Ring out the grief that saps the mind,
For those that here we see no more;
Ring out the feud of rich and poor,
Ring in redress to all mankind.
Ring out a slowly dying cause,
And ancient forms of party strife;
Ring in the nobler modes of life,
With sweeter manners, purer laws.
Ring out old shapes of foul disease;
Ring out the narrowing lusts of gold ;
Ring out the thousand wars of oid,
Ring in the thousand years of peace.
Ring in the valiant man and free,
The larger heart, the kindlier hand;
Ring out the darkness of the land,
Ring in the Christ that is to be.’’
ABDUCTION BY AN OURANG
OUTANG.
A recent traveler, in Borneo, relates an
abduction case which exceeds, in novelty,
anything which has occurred in any of our
large cities within the recollection of “the
oldest inhabitant.” A large female
ourang-outang, taking a fancy to a poor,
tired hunter—whom she caught napping—
dragged him by force to a tree, which she
compelled him to climb; watched him
with jealousy, fed him with fruit and young
palm leaves, and forced him to travel from
one limb to another, instead of traveling
on the ground. But listen to the tale of
ingratitude! The hunter watched his op
portunity. When his captor napped, he
got down, secured his gun and shot the
forest syren who had given him so much
attention. Alase 1 the ingratitude of man.
E. B.
Like flakes of snow that fall unperceived
upon tbe earth, the seemingly unimportant
events of life succeed one another. As the
snow gathers together, so are our habits
formed; no single flake that is added to the
pile produces a sensible change; no single
action creates, however it may exhibit, a
man’s character; but as the tempest hurls
the avalanche down the mountain and over
whelms the inhabitants and his habitations,
so passion, acting upon the elements of
mischief, which pernicious habits have
brought together by imperceptible accumu
lation, may overthrow the edifice of truth
and virtue.
The moments softly, swiftly fly;
Tlien dare not long to rest,
Lest some sore stricken heart despair,
Some purpose fail that need thy care—
Work and thou sbalt be blest,