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MARCH, 1894.
in his way. Presently he returned and
said more camly,
“But this seems to be the very crisis
from which our lives should join. It would
turn all the tide of unpleasant remarks,and
I see nothing to prevent our being happy
together. It an earnest, conscientious man
and woman decide that they will live their
lives together and do their best to make
them pure and righteous, surely no great
unhappiness can result. Think what a
pleasant home we could make. Wou-ld you
not enjoy being mistress of a lovely home
where you could entertain your friends
and have your brother with you?” (Ah,
Phil, could you descend to bribery?)
Don’t answer me finally until you have
thought over it a few minutes. ’ Going
out to the shed for more fuel, he noticed
that the rain had nearly ceased and the
darkness was not so dense, but if they
should start now, retrace part of their
journey,and proceed on their way,it would
probably be nearly morning when they
reached home. And Annie! what a host
of questions, suspicions, and exclamations
she would have to face. He knew Mr.
Graves, and was well aware of how unhap
py he must make Annie sometimes. Poor
child! how he wished she would give the
power he so much desired of explaining
the matter in the only way that would si
lence slanderous tongues.
Going back, be threw the wood on the
fire, then stood silently watching An
nie as she gazed with thoughtful, troubled
eyes into the glowing coals. Presently he
crossed over and sat down by her again.
Gently taking one of her hands, he said in
a low, tender voice
. ‘‘Aren’t you going to say ‘yes’ now? I
don't think you need be troubled about
the love; it will come all right after awhile.
Surely 1 can teach you to love me if I de
vote my life to trying.”
•‘But if I should learn to care for
you, I could not bear to always think you
had married me from pity,” she faltered.
“I think I could bear very well for you
to marry me from pity. Won't you take
pity on me and marry me because I want
you to so much? I think I began to love
you early this morning and it has been
getting worse all day. Indeed I am not
sure but I have been loving you a long
time and was such a fool I did not know
it.” Phil’s voice had a wonderful tender
ness which was beginning to have its effect
on Annie’s determination. She was plainly
beginning to waver. “Annie, be my wife
and let me take care of you. Think what
it will be to always have someone to take
your part against the while world.”
Did he know what a weight this last
plea would have, what a temptation it
would be to the homeless orphan, who had
only her brother, young and defenceless
himself, to take her part? She was silent
ly praying to be guided aright, and not to
let any selfish or mercenary consideration
determine her answer. It was impossible
not to think of the worldly advantage this
marriage would be to her, yet I think it
would have been of no avail had not the
tenderness in Phil’s voice appealed to some
thing in her woman’s heart which had
never before been awakened, and which
softly pleaded for him against the scruples
of her soberer thought. After all, as he
said, why might they not learn to love one
another? If he were willing to take the
risk, could not she be as generous? Phil,
who had gone to the door, now returned
and said:
“Miss Annie, the storm is over, and I
think we can s«e our way now.” His face
was pale and serious as he came and stood
before her once more. He felt that a few
moments mere must’decide this most im
portant question. “If you can consent to
my plan, we will go back to Parksville and
it is not yet too late to find a minister who
will unite us. If not, we will find the rieht
road as soon as possible and go home. We
can probably reach Belmont about three
in the morning.” Three in the morning I
What a picture this called up ofangrv
scandalized relatives, her uncle cruelly
sneering, her aunt curious and suspicious,
and even Archie perhaps condemning her
with boyish impatience and intolerance.
Her timid, sensitive nature shrank from
the scene in absolute terror.
On the other hand there was Phil, wait
ing and eager to take care of her and “take
her part against the whole world.” Who
can wonder that shefurned to him with
impulsive, outstretched hands, not needing
the aid of words to express her consent. In
silence also, Phil clasped her hands in bis
and bowed his face upon them for a mo
ment, there in the flickering light of the
dying fire.
Then while Annie put on her traveling
wrap and gathered up her few little be
longings, he breughtthe horse round, and
in a few moments they were ready to start.
In the tumult of her mind, Annie never
remembered very distinctly their drive
buck to Parksville, and their visit to the
good old clergyman Phil managed to find
and arouse from bis slumbers. She scarce
ly knew whether to be happy or not, yet
who can wonder that she felt a thrill of
pleasure and pride in the handsome lever
who had pleaded so earnestly, that she
hardly missed the conventional courtship
other girls experienced.
Their drive home next morning through
glorious sunshine and smiling landscape
seemed prophetic of a happy future and
prosperity in their journey through life,
It was during this drive that Phil said:
“I have been planning our bridal tour,
and I thought perhaps you would like to
go to Philadelphia first, so that you can
be with Archie tor a few days and see
him settled in his new quarters. Will you
like that?”
“0, so much! It is so good of you to
think of it. That was my greatest trouble,
thinking how hard he would feel toward
me, for treating him so.”
‘ But Annie, I think it will be best not
to tell him, or any one, just bow our little
compact was made. It would set people
commenting and speculating in away
that would not be pleasant. Nobody must
suspect that we have not had an orthodox
courtship and regular engagement. Os
course it will be hard not to exonerate
yourself fully in your brother’s eyes, but
we must remember, you know, that this
new relationship is the nearest and dear
est on earth, and nothing must come be
tween you and me that would weaken the
perfect unity we wish to establish.”
Annie slowly raised her eyes and regard
ed him earnestly for a moment, while for
the first time,she realized that this man was
her lord and master and would henceforth
have the first right to duty and submission
from her. He, divining what wss passing
in her mind, trembled to see what the re
sult of this first test would be. He was
relieved when she said, simply and sweetly:
‘Of course not. I wi’l only tell him as
much as you think best.”
‘•That is a good little wife,” Phil said,
and laughed mischievously to see how she
blushed at her new name.
We must now leave the young couple,
with just one parting glance into the hap
py home of a few years standing where
Annie reigns with gentle sway. Matronly
dignities seem eminently suited to her.and
she has developed in the sunlight of love
and appreciation into a noble, gracious
womanhood, fulfil’ing alike thedu‘iesof
an exemplary wife and a charming host
ess, for Phil is justly proud of his beauti
ful home amd gracoful wife, and likes to
gather his friends about him often.
Archie has secured an excellent situa
tion through Phil’s influence and now
makfs his home w ith his sister, so with
the two she loves best, Annie’s life is filled
with quiet happiness, and Phil has been
true to his promise that she should never
regret the compact made in that lonely,
doserted hut by the roadside, one summer
night agone.
Sophie Murray.
For Woman’s Work.
“LET YOUB LIGHT SO SHINE.”
Not simply “Let your light shine;” yo u
cannot hinder the shining, it will shine in
cne way or another whether yru like it or
not. Every human being has some ir flu
ence on those with whom he comes in
contact, and it is for each one to determine
what his or her ir fluence shall be, or in
other words how the light shall shine.
Perhaps you may think that you can
not influence any one for good; but re
member that Christ said: “They that be
not for us are against us,” and, if your
light does not shine for Christ, its rays
will lead some weak one away from the
path of duty—and then, whose shall be
the blami ? It is a true saying that the
world’s people, instead of reading the Bi
ble, read Christians. How can ful we who
bear Christ’s name ought to be to let our
“light so shine that others seeing ourgood
works may glorify our Father which is in
heaver!”
Another question in our minds may be,
where shall we let our light shine? There
are so many who seem to care nothing
about religion, and have such dim ideas
of right and wrong that it seems useless to
try to influence them for good ; but let us
again turn to Christ’s words,and we read,
“No man Jighteth a car die and putteth it
under a bushel, but upon a cendlestick,
that it may give light to all within the
house.” By this we know that we must
not hide our light, even when our sur
roundings are such that it seems like sow
ing the seed on stony places. AVe must
remember that we are commanded to sow
beside all waters, and wherever a rsy of
light from our lives goes cut ?nto the
world’s darkness, the Lord is there to
guide if; and although we may never
know the result, we may feel that we have
done our duty, and the Lord will do the
r e st - R. E. M.
WOMAN’S WORK.
For Woman’s Work.
SIXTEEN YEARS.
Sixteen years since our paths united
On thatsunny day in the early fall,
When for weal or woe our vows we plighted,
And pledged to each other our lives, our all.
Sixteen years ! Have they brought us bless
ing ?
Ask of the love that has never grown cold,
But has grown more deep, and strong, and
tender
As the hurrying years the time have lold.
Sixteen years! Has the woe been wanting ?
Nay, but we’ve found the dear Lord true,
And tho’ sorrow’s night brought toil and
heartache.
It brought with the shadows, refreshing dew.
R. E. M.
For Woman’s Work.
A RAMBLING LETTER.
My Dear Dot :
You see I am still in the old place—al
most a fixture by this time. Well, Dot,
you cor eluded to write to me after all tluse
months of silence ! I cannot tell you how
very glad I %as to hear from you again.
I have often looked at your picture and
wondered why you did not write. The
picture has always had a sort of fascina
tion for me—perhaps it is your eyes, so
tender and true, that appeal to me so
strongly.
Do not think that I have blamed you at
all for not writing. I know what it is to
have business cares, and the mercenary
thoughts of crush out our friendships.
Too soon, we find that the busy world is
not the place for the happy-go-lucky, care
less dawdler; it is the place for the earn
est worker, and it is only such that it treats
witheven a small degree of consideration.
I, too, am but an indifferent corresDon
dent, for I have so little spare time. Yes
P corresponded steadily with me, un-
til about three or four months ago, when
he, too, seemed to drop out of my little
world. He intended calling upon you
when he went to the Fair, but wrote after
wards that he had not the time, which he
regretted so much.
I still object, as much as ever, to the
word “charming” as applied to me, for it
savors too much of sarcasm, knowing my
self so well.
[lnterruption, No. I.]
I quite envy you your school and liter
ary work, particularly the latter, though 1
know both must bring a great deal ofhard
labor. (One would think I was talkirgof
work in the penitentiary, when I speak of
“hard If bor.”)
“What have I been doing with myself?”
Well, to be honest, I must say—simply
existing, drifting, drifting, drifting, but
ever in the same circle, or perhaps one
growing gradi a ly larger in circumference,
as the time passes. A few more friends
have I found, many pleasures have 1
known—and many sorrows, too.
It is the way of the world, Dot, that
each ore must bear, patiently or other
wise, his or her share of life’s burdens.
Though < urs may seem the heaviest, they
may not be, for we cannot look into the
lives of others; we simply see a little of
their outside life, which tells no tales. We
are apparently calm and peace*u'—even
happy—to our acquaintances and to our
dearest friends at times, and often no hu
man being knows what we may suffer. So
much for the stoicism with wl ich many < f
us cover up our wounded feelings and sad
disappointments.
H< igb, ho, hum I lamina melancholy
strain again. But what I have said is
true ; I have tested it, and experience is a
good teacher.
[lnterrup'ion, No. 2.]
Back again , end feeling more cheerful,
as a comequtnce of a good dinner. It jg
strange, isn’t it, how one’s physical condi
tion will affect one’s mental condition, and
what a soothing ir fluence a good meal
will have on a down-hearted mortal? It
brings the higher parts of our natures into
subjection to the more material.
Dear Dot, I am very glad you trust me
enough to tell me of your private worries.
I know what a relief it is to tell someone,
who will sympath : ze with you, of your
trials. In each life, there are things we
do not tell—except, perhaps, in enigmas—
even to our truest f iends, and yet it bene
fits us to blk of them, if only in a vague
fashion. We cannot carry all of our bur
dens alone; they are too much for us, and
we are too frril and human. We must
have friends, or we cannot be even par
tially happy.
“No man liveth unto himrelf.” Just as
other lives touch ours, our lives must in
fluence some other/, for good or evil. It
is not a light question to think of. Am I
leading others to the wrong cr to the right,
to the dark or to the light?
lam very glad you say you are not
“hard and cold,” for I half feared it from
what you said about being indifferent now
to whatever troubles come to you. I
think, sometimes, after serious trials, there
come periods of apathy—periods which
make us have a feeling ofdon’t-care-ative
ness—when it seems as if nothing that
could happen would have even the slight
est effect upon us, either in one direction
or another; and yet, I have noticed that
these periods are usually followed by great
er activity and more hopefulness.
You mustn’t grow down-hearted, Dot;
“It is a long lane that has no turning.”
“Thy lot is the common lot of all.
Into each life some rein must fall,
Some days must be dark and dre’ry.”
It is a hard lesson to learn, Dot, to bear
all trials patiently, but it is a good one,
fcr it brings out the mettle and all the bet
ter, finer partin our natures, that has been
lying dormant; it is making character for
us. What would we be worth without the
trials and failures to urge us on to nobler
and greater things? We all grow dis
couraged at times, but every cioud has its
silver lining, even if it may be long before
it is disclosed to our view.
This is the verse that comes into my
mind, when some great prcblem of life
seems to touch me, and I cannot see the
right of it:
“Be strong, be strong, nor fruitless’v revolve,
Darkling, the riddles which ye cannot solve,
But do the work that unto you belongs,
Believing that for every mystery,
For all the death, the darkness and the curse
Os this dim univere,
Needs a solution of love must be.
And the way whereby we may attain,
Nearest to th's, is not by brooding® wain
Nor half-rebellious questionings of God,
But by a patient striving to fulfil ,
The purrose of His everlasting will.’’
That is the secret; He knoweth beat;
He holds the key to all unknown, and all
we need do is to have faith and attend our
share of the work, the work laid out for us.
If we would only do this, we would be far
happier and better satisfied with life; but
often it seems as if we were too weak. *oo
mortal, to keep in the strict, stern path of
duty, when the by-paths lead out among
the trees and flowers, over the soft, green
grass to the Beyond, which we cannot see
at first, but which, oftentimes, turns out to
be, not what we expected, but a precipice,
leading down into the darkness of the val
leys so far beneath.
But we do not see the precipice until we
are at its brink, and then we pause and
look with horror at the step we might
have taken, the step from „ne pleasant
fields to the blackness and darkness—the
step from the h"lf right to the absolute
wrong; then we draw back, and slowly,
and sometimes painfully, from the shock,
wend our way again to the path of duty,
rugged and narrow though it be, ard take
up our burden of life once more with re
newed 5 igor and thankfulness that we
were spared frrm taking the fats 1 step
But how I am rambling I
D’d I tell you that I had dabbled a little,
in literary work, just the least little bit,
you know—only the point of the pen, as it
were, dipped into the ink. It is pleasant
work,all butthe mss returned wfththanks,
which gives one a chill, and makes one
gulp and seem to swallow a rebellions
heart. We are too sensitive at times to
our failures, and need to become hardened
—no, not hardened, but strengthened and
ready to stand the disappointments for the
sake of the future success.
How old are you, Dot? I have forgot
ten ; r ineteen or twenty? And yet you
talk of being an “old, cn bbrd school
marm. ’ Why, if you are old, so must I
be, for I came into this “vale of tears and
smiles” full two years before your eyes
began to wink ard blink at the strong
light. How the months and years speed
by, and ma/eus grow older, whether we
will or no.
Well, Dot, I must say good-bye for the
time being, but I shall expect to bear from
you soon, even if you are so busy. lam
busy, too, but I snatch a moment now and
tnen to write to my friends.
Fmma. L. Hauck.
There is a difference between trying to
please and giving pleasure. Give pleasure.
Lose no chance of giving pleasure; for
that is the coast less and anoryrrous tri
umph of a truly loving spirit. “I shall
pass through this world but tnce. Any
good thing therefore that I can do, or any
kindness ihat I can show to any human
being, let me do it now. Let me not de
fer it or neglect it, for I (hall not pass this
way again.” God has put in our power
the happiness of those ab< ut u e , and that
is largely to be seemed by (ur being I ind
to them.— Henry Drummond.
That life is long which inswen li"*3
grea| end.— Young.
I" ft AND PAINS are forced to
L\ retreat and are cured almost
LU instantly by ELECTROPHINE!
AK
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