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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,