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2 For Woman’s Work They are passing, passing—our beloved— Out of our plaints and tears; In our sad eyes they smile Jove and praise And we see them no more in the busy ways, Rippling the sea of years. We know not to whither they are passing, The way is veiled in mist, But we see glints of light on their hair, The way must be serene and fair— By beams of glory kissed. For Woman’s Work. T WAS again June. Alan, brown as a berry and dress ed in a suit of homespun ' material, was dusting the well i worn cushions of the old family 1 r 1 carriage preparatory to starting for church. A spirit of religion brooded o’er the land. The morning sun rose like a resplendent high priest and bathed the woods and fields with fragrant incense. The birds sang an exultant “Te deum” to the muffled drone of the bees. The barn-yard fowls plumed themselves in the grateful morning sun. An abiding sense of contentment filled Alan’s heart with peace. After his father’s death he had assumed control of the farm until the estate was settled. Then, as he had promised, he purchased the old home stead just as it was left. He now found himself much interested in its cultivation. His aunt and cousin remained at the head of the household affairs. Along with his peace of mind Alan found new strength of body. The daily exercise of an active outdoor life had made him feel like a new man. His present life so occupied his attentions that, had it not been for the rent remittance and other business connected with his extensive investments in the East, he could have forgotten, almost entirely, those unhappy years when he was one of the most successful stockbrokers in the street. His superior intelligence and busi ness ability soon made him the recognized leader of the community. There was not a more generous man in the country. At the very first he erected a commodious brick school building and paid from his own private fortune a superior corps of teachers to instruct the children of the district. This, with numerous minor acts of philanthropy, marked the first year of Alan’s stay in the country. His neigh bors nodded to him pleasantly, as they passed along the road on their way to church. In a few moments the hired man led “Jack”, the carriage horse, from the stable, and after giving him a drink at the trough under the locust, hitched him to the vehi cle. In the meantime Alan had gone to the house to change his clothes. Shortly afterward he, together with his aunt and cousin, emerged through the little front gate, after locking the door and placing the key under the mat, and entered the carriage which had been drawn up under the trees in front of the house. A drive of a couple of hours brought them to the little white church in the grove. The silver-toned bell was sending forth its message of peace and goodwill o’er meadow, hill and dale. They turned into the shady grove, and, after helping his aunt and cousin from the carriage, Alan led Jack to a post in the shade of an old oak, where he hitched him to dream away the hour of service. The little churchyard, with its roses and myrtle and well-kept graves, lay just at the edge sos the grove. Alan, seeing it yet lacked a few minutes of service, enter ed through the little gate and stepped to the grass covered mounds where rested his loved parents. He plucked a few weeds from the graves and loosened the earth around a young rosebush which was just beginning to bloom. The spring before he had planted it on his mother’s grave. He stood with bowed head in this sacred spot, in deep and solemn meditation, till the simple notes of the opening hymn an nounced the beginning of the service. He walked up the aisle of the “men’s” side to the pew next the middle window, which he had often occupied when a child. As he sat here on this particular morn ing, with the odor of locust and sweet scented clover coining in through the open window, his thoughts wandered back to his youth. The clear, honest voices pour ing forth their praise to God in soothing, simple melody united the present to the past. In imagination he could hear again the sweet singing of his mother as she mingled her voice in the long metre of this, her favorite hymn. He pictured his father once more by his side, while many other familiar faces, now sleeping in the little OUR BELOVED, £ss ALAN McCOY. BY SIGEL ROI’SH, CHAPTER 111. We think of them oft’nest when skies burn red Where naked boughs are tossed, When the partridge calls from the stubble of corn, When we shiver and turn from gardens forlorn And roses black with frost. We think of them fondly as landmarks lost. While we go on in fear. And words they spake that we gave no heed, Their tender thoughts of us in our need, In angel guise appear. Sophie Fox Sea, white city by the grove, re-peopled again the cool, sweet-smelling church.*! He seem ed to hear again their words of mutual en couragement and exhortation. At the close of the hymn he awakened from his day-dream. The minister—for this was preaching Sunday—arose from the chair back of the pulpit and proceeded to read the morning lesson. It was Alan’s •favorite Psalm. As the tall, white-bearded man of God stood before his congregation and read these incomparable words: “The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pas tures: He leadeth me beside the still waters,” there, in the midst of God’s own handiwork, with birds chirping in the grove, with bees humming in the flower ing locust, and the brook babbling at the foot of the hill, Alan’s soul went out in sweet communion with the indescribable peace and solemnity of the sacred words. “He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for His name’s sake,” fell from the trembling lips of the venerable preacher, and Alan thought of that summer day long ago, in thejoyous month of June, when he had given his heart to God—when, arising from the very seat he now sat in, he walked boldly for ward and held out bis hand to this self same preacher, who, in the solemn pause that followed the first verse of the invita tion hymn, announced the accession to the Church with unfeigned joy. He also recalled the preacher’s words of consolation and commendation and how happy he had felt in this public ac knowledgment of his great Leader and King. Then he remembered the rites of baptism administered after the services, and the ineffable joy, the sublime peace that came like a sweet calm with the con sciousness that he had confessed his Saviour and had consecrated his life to Christ. This, like a shadowy dream, all came back to him, as he sat there amid the scenes of his early conversion. “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for Thou art with me,” and with these words, the thought of the dark, sin-stained years of his life wrought a frown on Alan’s brow, and a twinge of bitterness filled his soul. Indeed, it had been a valley of death to him; spiritual, certainly, and well-nigh physical. Up to the present time Alan had at tended these services simply because it was agreeable. The earnest sincerity of the worshippers, and the simple, unos tentatious service, was refreshing to him and helped him to forget his past unhap piness. It also, in a measure, comforted him. Yet he had long ago ceased to make any pretensions to religious feelings, and previous to his return was seldom seen at any place of worship. Early in his busi ness career he saw the bigotry and hypoc risy of fashionable churches. He found the usurer, the swindler, the corruptionist and the impostor occupying the softest pews and holding the most responsible positions. This was sufficient to make him a skeptic and a scoffer. He realized now how far he had wandered from his early religious convictions, and how long he had been a stranger to that peace and comfort that only an abiding religious faith can give. After finishing this exquisite psalm, the congregation joined in another hymn of praise—the familiar tune of those immor tal words, “Rock of Ages Cleft for Me, let me Hide Myself in Thee,” and the words burned deep into Alan’s soul. At the conclusion of this hymn the minister again arose and announced his final text. “He Restoreth my soul,” was the particular sentence from the psalm just read, upon which he spoke. It was not a fashionable sermon. He used no notes. His words seemed the natural outpouring of a fervent heart. His illustrations and figures came from the fields, the groves, the birds, the beasts, and other sources familiar to his rural congre gation. He referred with much earnest ness and warmth to the story of the prodi WOMAN’S WORK. gal son and to the love and forgiving spirit of the lowly Christ. He dwelt upon those scenes in the life of the Saviour which came nearest home to these sincere and trusting people. At the conclusion of his touching ser mon many were moved to tears. Alan himself felt his eyes moisten and his lips tremble. He longed for that old feeling of divine repose he had not known for so many years. When the closing hymn was announced he experienced a vague sense of unrest, an unsatisfied longing, an unframed wish that the services might not yet close. The minister seemed to be aware of this disquietude that filled Alan’s breast—the half-formed resolution to re unite himself to the church—for at the close of the hymn, instead of pronouncing the benediction, as was customary, he step ped down in front of the pulpit and con tinued the service with an exhortation full of earnest solicitude for any who were not at peace with their Creator. He dwelt upon the beauties of religion, and the blessed boon of the ever constant comfort which Christ alone could give. With marked emotion, he recounted many touch ing scenes that had come under his notice during his long term of service as pastor of the church. He referred to the uncer tainty of life, and with tearful eyes recalled the loved faces of many who had listened to his words of counsel and admonition, but who now were sleeping quietly in the little churchyard by the grove. The men tion of these names touched many a sad dened heart to whom they were bound by the nearest and dearest ties. The aged pastor spoke feelingly of the inestimable Christian traits of Alan’s saint ed mother and the sterling worth of his dead father. He graphically described that immortal reunion where parting and sorrow would be no more, and urged, with that calm eloquence born of long convic tion, that ail be prepared forthe last solemn summons. He closed this zealous exhorta tion with a pressing invitation to any in the congregation who were not at peace with God, to seek reconciliation. No sooner had the invitation been given than Alan arose and, walking forward, again grasped the hand of the visibly affected preacher, who, with unmistakable joy, immediately asked the congregation to join him in singing “Praise God from whom all blessings flow,” at the conclu sion of which he welcomed once again the wanderer back to the fold. Then, ’mid many an audible sob, he pronounced the benediction. At peace with God and man, Alan, as he drove home from church, felt, as never before, the efficacy of the concluding verse of the morning lesson—“ Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.” To Alan these pre cious words bore a truth, an inexpressible comfort that surpasseth all understand ing- During the next year Adan devoted much time and money to charity and religion. The faithful old minister, who had twice been the instrument of leading him into the light and peace of a religious life, was the first to be provided for. In the farther end of the grove, where the wild honeysuckle and May flowers grew in profusion, there sprung up as if by magic a cosy rural cottage surrounded by flowers and rustic benches. The pic turesque structure looked like an abode for fairies and wood-nymphs, nestling there beneath the sheltering boughs of the giant oaks, with their great, brawny arms inter locked above in silent protection from sultry rays and wintry winds. Within this delightful little bower were placed, among other things, a library filled with all those books which Alan knew the venerable man of God loved to read. . Be sides these the postman at the station monthly brought forth a bundle of papers and magazines from the great presses throughout the country, and spread them out on the heavy oak table in this cozy reading room. Here, indeed, was a haven of rest in which the faithful old minister could pass his fading years in peace of mind and tranquillity of spirit, surrounded by those with whom he had labored and who loved him with that great, unselfish love which is only possible with great, un selfish hearts and souls. It was Alan’s chiefest joy to sit in the library or under the little vine-clad veran da and hold communion with this venera ble teacher, with the love of nature and nature’s God in his soul, and the soothing drone of the leafy grove in his ears. From underneath the sheltering oaks the vista included distant fields and hills, the gradual fading of the day changed the silver sun light to gold and then to varying shades of purple, as the sun sank beneath the hills, and never failed to fascinate and charm the beholder. To Alan, this hour of twilight was ever fruitful of pleasant day-dreams. Then he again those halcyon days when by his mother’s side he sat under the shelter ing leaves of that old-fashioned rose-bush which wove its fragrant arms lovingly above the portal of his happy childhood home. Sweet visions of other days crowded his memory, as the stars one by one began to twinkle in the vast blue vault above, while the intermittent light of the fitful firefly studded the meadow with slow-mov ing miniature will-o’-the-wisps. On these occasions but few words were spoken. Only now and then was the soothing silence broken by human speech. As Alan sat one evening thinking of his early associates and calling back to memory the missing ones, he broke the silence by timidly asking of his early sweetheart. “The Strong family—they have gone. What has become of them?” he said hesi tatingly. The old preacher, a man of over seventy, had spent forty years of his life as pastor of this particular congregation, and during that period had known everybody in the community. Alan had often wondered where they had gone and had as often been on the point of inquiring about them, but each time he put it off. While he waited for a reply, his heart beat percepti bly faster. Many times he had thought of Effie Strong, since his return to the farm. On several occasions he had sought out the old beech tree on which still remained her half obliterated name, and speculated as to her manner of life. He had carved it there when both were young and hopes ran high. He remembered his youthful dream of love when he should be the proud owner of a city mansion and Effie its beautiful mistress. Alas! how time laughs at our early vagaries! He often recalled those youthful fancies—sometimes with childish joy, more often with bitterness at the irony of fate—and wondered whereon the great sea of life had drifted the object of his boyish affections. On this droning summer night Alan’s heart was filled with these tender memories. His desire to know the history of his first love at length overcame his timidity, and so he asked the question. “Strong? Strong? Ben Strong, who lived on the old Anderson farm?” said the pastor, cudgeling bis brain. “Yes, the one with the pretty daughter. Effie was her name, I believe,” said Alan, ill concealing his interest. “Ah, yes, I remember now. They left many years ago for the west; was unfortu nate in his money affairs, I believe, and was compelled to sell his farm to pay his debts. I don’t know what has become of him, but I heard he got along poorly after selling the farm. It was the year of the failure of crops in the west, and he, with many others, who had not yet become established, doubtless were hard put to it in order to live.” “The girl, Effie, do you remember her?” “Ah, very well. She was a lovely young woman. Only the Sunday before they left, I received her into the church. I have never seen her since.” Filled with many pleasant dreams of other days, when he gathered wild flowers for Effie and helped her over the little bab bling brook on their way from school, Alan slowly sauntered through the per fumed evening air to the old home among the flowering locusts and dark green maples. CHAPTER IV. T WAS during that interact between seed-time and harvest on the rural . stage, that the annual Sunday School I picnic was given. The crops had been tilled and left to mature, and the farmers were enjoying, ere the harvest came on, a few weeks of well-earned rest. This was the season for mid-summer di versions. It was the time when the old rifle was taken down from its accustomed place above the door, and cleaned up for a few days’ hunting, or the cobwebbed fish ing tackle dragged from out the rubbish of the smoke-house loft and gotten in order for half a week’s service along the neigh boring streams. It was also the time for out-door gatherings, such as family reun ions, camp-meetings and picnics. It had long been the custom for all the churches in the neighborhood to annually give a combined, non-sectarian Sunday School celebration. These gatherings brought together in some suitable grove the majority of the county’s population, and were accounted the most important of the summer’s outdoor festivities. No one could afford to miss the Sunday School picnic. The thrifty housewives were busy planning their “spreads” for no less than a week beforehand, for a sort of good-natured rivalry existed among the excellent cooks as to who could display on these occasions the most tempting meal. Alan well re membered these early picnics when, after exploring the remote corners of the groye. FEBRUARY, 1896.