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For Woman’s Work. ADVERSITY. What would our lives be worth if we Ne'er struggled with adversity— Nor felt the cold, wild blasts of pain Shake every nerve and chill each vein, Yet feel that we must struggle on And brave the storm till life is done? Therefore heed not the toil and sighs, But up, and onward to the skies, For he who gives up in the race Must wear the stigma of disgrace, And faltering souls must ever be Like stranded ships, on life’s great sea, Dee Max. For Woman’■ Work. THE VILLAGE “NE’ER-DO WEEL.” tN the rugged coast of Scotland, in the little town of Errol on the Firth of Tay, dwelt nay hero, “The Village Ne’er-do-weel.” It was the year 1328, the 24th day of July, and the fourteenth anniversary of the battle of Bannockburn. The Treaty of Northampton had just been signed, securing the independence of Scotland and Bruce’s right to the throne. There was great rejoicing throughout the land. Every village, hamlet and city of bonnie Scotland was decked out in Na tion a! colors, and celebrated with a right good will the greatest achievement of King Bruce. In Errol the festivities were as enthusiastically participated in as in the large cities of Edinburgh, Glasgow and Dundee. At high noon, public meet ings were held in the “Laird’s Hall,” the intermissions between the speeches being filled up with various numbers of pibrochs, very hideous music indeed, to cultured ears. The sound emitted from the Scot tish bagpipe being equal in discord to the voice of Jubal when he first struck the gamut. A chance observer from a for eign land would have found it intensely fascinating to view the picturesque surg ing throng of hardy Norsemen gathered in Errol’s chief hall, all shouting praises to their Scottish hero. One gazing critically over that vast as semblage in search of a perfect type of clansmen—of an ideal hero, to be chosen as the model of a companion character to Roderick Dhu—would have found the re quirements of fastidious fancy realized in the person of Gordon Durrell, as he stood leaning with folded arms against a sup porting column at the principal entrance of Laird’s Hall. He seemed a figure carved in bronze —so still, so motionless he stood. His fair, flowing locks waved back from a brow as lofty and as massive as St. Paul’s. A smile, mysterious and passionate, hovered about his finely carved lipa—a smile eloquent with sadness, mock ery, bitterness, sweetness and despair. “The heroic, sovereign glance which shot at intervals from the fathomless depths of his deep blue eyes, reminded one of an archangel.” A great ambition, a mighty inspiration burned in that glance, and yet —in that whole assemblage of his native people, there was not one who would have sanctioned your choice of hero. They would have laughed in your face, most likely, and probably have told you his history, which runs thus: “What! that lad noble looking? The blue blood of Wallace flows in hit veins? Why, it was said that ‘Satan smiled at his birth’— he had been born in sin.” This, and much more the villagers would tell you. He was thriftless, reckless, and read books— considered a very unprofitable occupation in Scotland at that period. Your inform ant was perfectly honest in telling you this—he knew nothing of young Durreli’s virtues. Proud and haughty, unaccus tomed to sympathy or approbation, Gor don had never paraded his acts of human ity ; he had rather sought to conceal them. The all-seeing eye of the public—which prided itself on discovering everything about a man’s life, and meting out justice to deserving virtue—was at fault here. The community of Errol had forgotten that a man never falls so low as utterly to lose the outlines of that divine image in which the ancient parents of the race were created. To be sure they had tried systematic reformation. The ministers of God had hurled rebukes and threats and warnings of eternal punishment indeli cately and insolently at Gordon Durrell, which he resented and defied by plunging deeper into debaucheries. No eye but Goa’s had witnessed how tenderly the Village-ne’er-do-weel had sheltered and protected a poor old mendicant whom the city had stoned from her limits on suspi cion of witchcraft. This was only one in stance of many greater and lesser deeds of philanthropy performed by Gordon Dur rell. Ah, there are so many kinds of no bil.ty—so many heroes serving outside the pale of reward—so many Christians toil ing on without the hope of a cross—so many kings uncrowned. This lad sinned often against himself—against others, never. His education was self-gained. He was well read in the history of Scot land—had gloried in her victories, wept for her shame. To-day he listened in scorn to the un worthy tributes his countrymen lavished on Robert Bruce. The last speaker on the programme failed to answer when his name was read, and the chairman an nounced the meeting adjourned unless some one volunteered to fill the absent or ator’s place. Here the chairman paused, for, ere his words had died away,, a quick, firm tread sounded on the bare floor, and a young man with compressed lips and flashing eyes, mounted the polished stairs and stood proudly before the people. A low hiss ran through the astonished audi ence, when they realized who the young adventurer was.. The President arose and sternly admonished the mu titude, but young Darrell was already master of the situation. His majestic figure was drawn up to its full height,his broad chest heaved passionately, one solemn hand was uplift ed heavenward. Those who heard him speak that day, never forgot in life the strange thrill that stirred their hearts, and the poweriul spell which held their spirits captive when that rich, magnetic voice rang out in de fense of justice. A rapt and subdued ex pression crept into every face. A stillness like the hush of death fell over the spell bound audience. His genius enchanted, convinced. He held every soul in that house under his influence before he uttered one word. At last he spoke. The words fell softly, musically from his lips : “I stand here to-day, my countrymen, in the determination to perform a strange mission—the selfish mission of vindicating my own character, which has submitted so long to be buffeted about by the hand— the merciless hand—of public opinion’; patiently have I waited the intervention of Providence. She has failed me thus far, and I have no option but to speak in self-defense. Voluntarily I have entered the tribunal of Justice, and constitute you my judges in the absence of a jury. Ten years ago, this day, I came among you, a bairn of nine summers; ’twas a cold, piti less night in December, when I left my mother’s home. For seven months I had wandered, driven from village to village like a dog, at times almost starving. “When I crossed the limits of this low land town, an old man took me by the hand, and bade me remain. I did so. There were three months of happiness for me—the first I ever knew—and then my benefactor, the saintly Kinnaird, passed to his eternal rest. Since then I have served a continuous term in the prison house of Injustice. I knew nothing of my shame, and you taught your children to taunt me with it. I would have worked, but you refused me honest labor. Ven geance is sweet to those who have hunger ed for it. I, in spite of Kinnaird’s godly teachings, have wished for it at times. Last night I would have said to you that if I had disgraced the pharisaical village of Errol, I was glad. To-day I will not re proach; you shall only hear truth from my lips. I have genius ; you who could have fostered it, refused—denied the encourage ment which Christians might easily have given without hurt to moral rectitude, or fear of contamination. I know that Charity is a hard lesson to learn, but I have mastered the difficult task, and am therefore better than you who have abused me} I have enough of Charity to cover the sins which you have committed. I can pray as Jesus of Nazareth did on the cross—‘Forgive them, Father, for they know not what they do.’ This magna nimity of soul was not developed without a bitter and a mighty struggle. You, who worship in Christian churches, had almost lost me my soul. Think of it, friends, a human soul—that Christ died to save just as surely as he did yours. I was growing bitter, dissipation had un dermined the strength of my character; a few more months, and your work of de struction would have been completed—the damnation of my soul would have been written to your credit by the Recording Angel. Nemesis, who had dogged your footsteps thus far, stood appalled at the enormity of her work, and vanished fear fully into the darkness, routed by the au gust hand of Providence, which barely saved us both from an ignominious crime. ‘ Let me show you my savior.” Gordon drew from his breast a letter with the roy al seal conspicuously visible. As he un folded it leisurely, he let his tranquil geze pass wonderingly over the faces of the listening company. Men sat with bowed heads, their eyes seeking the floor; women wept. A queer light glittered for an in stant in his starry eyes, then steadily and remorselessly he continued: “Bruce, of Bannockburn, requests that the unfortunate sons of Scotland who re quire assistance, encouragement or ad vice, apply to him in person at his resi dence —Cardross Castle. They will not WOMAN’S WORK. supplicate in vain. I considered myself one of the ‘unfortunates’ and His Majesty received me most flatteringly. You may remember this incident to give to History when the world demands the name of an unknown hero, whose unparallelled ex ploits have become the marvel of this country. “King Bruce honored me with a secret and important mission; I leave you to ful fill it. The sun which sinks yonder in the golden west, sets for the last time above my head in Errol. “Ere morn with rosy fingers hath un barred the gates of light, I shall be many leagues distant; my weary journey will be begun without God speed. So be it. I consent to die to the world now—all the more glorious will be my resurrection. Gordon Durrell is no more. He will rise under a new name, laurel crowned, and defy even the sanctimonious children of St. Columba to point the finger of scorn at him. You, who have already attained the acme of perfection, will be competent to appreciate merit when it appears be fore you. One favor 1 would ask ; ’tis the first and last, atid though it add to my burden of gratitude, I would still insist that when tbe world proclaims my fame, that Errol—poor, mistaken Errol—will not establish a claim on the unworthy ‘Ne’er do-weel,’ whom they would have allowed to perish rather than cast the mantle of pity about his weaknesses and errors. Farewell then, until my predictions are verified. I wish you all—my generous benefactors—a thousand rich blessings in reward for your beneficence. At some future day, I trust my debt of gratitude may be cancelled in the sight of man, and that your well-meant serenity will be for given and expiated in the eyes of God. Adieu 1” With a gracious courtesy, he passed out from among them, unhindered and alone. The crowd dispersed silently, with a sick ening sense of their own cruelty gnawing at their hearts. The subject was never alluded to; each and every one under stood that guilt equal to that of his broth er, lay on his own soul. Slowly, but surely, they all set about working out? their own pardon. Expiation is always accepted by the outraged god of justice— and remorse spurred reparation on to an exquisite accomplishment. Ten years later the tranquil village of Errol on the Firth of Tay, was startled by the martial tread of a thousand mounted cavalry. The inhabitants hastily donned their most gorgeous tartans and flocked to the Hardninge Heath. The chiefs were gathered about a grand, imposing person age, who was superbly mounted on a coal black horse. The Secretary for Scotland, the Lord Keeper for the Privy Seal, the Lord Justice Clerk, and the Lord Advo cate, all paid homage to that noble pres ence. Errol had heard of the great chief tain who was considered the peer of Bruce in heroism, who had endeavored to guide the ship of government smoothly through the troubled sea of civic warfare, and of his military miracles on the shores of the Dan. The people wondered vaguely if they had ever beheld this stranger; there seemed something strangely familiar in the graceful poise of his Adonis-like head. They implored his name, and listened awe struck, as the well known tones of a still remembered voice broke the silence. “I bear three names, good people. First, is that which my country has bestowed upon me in recognition of duty performed on her glorified battlefield—Prince Roderic. Another name, less glorious perhaps than this, but no less dear, was won at Clyde- St. Vincences’ Savior of Mooray is enough —you have heard the story of the Siege. But last, and more glorious still, I have the honor to be, your most humble ser vant, Gordon Durrell, the Village Ne’er do-weel. Ruby Beryl Kyle. “BEADIE.” [ Continued from page 3.] riage, and it was a great trial to her moth er, also, but Mrs. Blisshorn was willing to make any sacrifice for Beadle’s good. Beadie was much changed. She was more thoughtful and womanly; but was bright and cheerful, without a sign of the consciousness of Having done wrong. I was not qualified to give advice, so I sug gested that Beadie consult Professor Teachum. He was a man of experience, was her sincere friend, and she was under heavy obligations to him. All the family agreed to this suggestion. I could not im agine myself going to Professor Teachum with a love story, but Beadie could be brave when occasion demanded, and she did not shrink from the task. She return ed with me, and went alone to interview the president. Beadie was gone two hours. I seaiched her face the moment she entered our room, but there was calm content without un- usual excitement there. She took a low chair and laid ner crutch on the floor more quietly than usual, while I put my book aside and said: “Well, Beadie ?” “It is well, I suppose,” she replied in the clear, silvery voice peculiar to her. Pro fessor Teachum agrees with Mamma. He says if I quite know my mind and am fully decided to marry Joyce Harwood, that it is best for me to marry and not return to school. The dear old fellow feels disap pointed in me, I know, as well as Mam ma, and thinks that God never intended me for a wife, but he was too kind to say so. I will go home to-morrow; then the day after—let me see, that will be Friday. We will be married on Friday in Joyce’s bedroom. We must make Friday a lucky day whether it is or not.” “Oh, no, Beadie I” I cried in amaze ment. “Wait until Mr. Harwood is well, and marry decently—do I Pray don’t make yourself appear ridiculous. Wait a few months—one month, at least.” “No,” she said, “a relapse would kill him now. My prospective mother-in-law gives way too easily and lets Joyce eat too much. I will marry him and nurse him back to health. He is not willing to wait, and in that he is right.” There was such decision in her tone that I said no more against her plans. They were married, and I saw Beadie no more for six years, although we kept up a regu lar correspondence. When 1 went to visit her, tnere were two sunny-haired, blue eyed children at her knee. A more beau tiful home-life I never saw. Beadie was merry and frolicsome as ever, and could run on her crutch as fast as tbe children could run : but when she had played enough there was a decided “That will do, darling,” or “There now, dearie,” which never was questioned. It was the same in all that concerned the children; when the word came they never seemed to hesitate, yet it was all so cheerful, so happy. Beadie seemed to have imbibed Mr. Harwood’s firmness and method, while he seemed to have caught her spirit of frank ness and cheerfulness, making delightful harmony. He could frolic with the chil dren, equal to Beadie herself; then, in five minutes all would be in an attitude of reverence for evening prayers. The home less women and children, the unemployed and helpless men who came to them for help and advice were always sure of a po lite hearing, a cheerful word of sympathy and advice, and the beflt assistance that the case and the circumstances permitted. These were always received in the sitting room, and the absent husband or wife called in; what impressed me most was the oneness of mind and spirit in the lit tle family, which was brought out so clear ly at these interviews. Two years later I was called there by a telegram. The lovely young mother was dying. The friends and neighbors were gathered in an adjoining room. Mother, husband and children were by the bed. She was per fectly conscious. A smile played on her face as I softly kissed her brow and sat down at her side. There was no review ofher life. Cheerfully as she had lived it, she gave it up. There was no terribly trying scene; we all understood one an other too well for that to be necessary. A loving message for the absent brother, then she turned to me. “I love you as well in my last hour, my friend, as when we were school girls to gether. You have been true: that is the best that can be said of a friend. You will be true to those that are mine, also. I’ll see you again.” “Mamma, I leave my children to you until Joyce wishes to keep them with him. You have been such a dear, good mother, you will be just as good a grandmother. “Bliss, Nellie, Mamma is going up to Heaven to-day, to live with the angels. Papa and grandmother will bring you up there after a while. “Joyce, my last thought is of you, dear. I know what your life will be—just as it has been. I ask no more. I give my life— whatever it has been—to God. I have no fear for any of you, not even for my chil dren, for I know they are in good hands. What a privilege to have my last hour so free from care I” A few instructions more, then she smiled back a hopeful good-bye as she went away. Mr. Harwood still lives at the same place. Mrs. Blisshorn and Beadie’s chil dren spend part of the time there. Once each year he visits me. When he is here he often says: “Do you think Beadie would like for the children to learn”—thus and so? Or, “I thought Beadie would want me to do that.” Strangers who meet him at my house say “he is so peculiar.” Yes. perhaps so, but he is Beadie’s hus band. No soul is desolate so long as there is a human being for whom it can feel, trust and reverence.—Georye Eliot 5