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For Woman’s Work.
Tlhi© Real! Eafloneaitoiro
BY GEORGE BANCROFT GRIFFITH.
TUDY to improve your mind,
Study to benefit mankind,
Study that the good and true
May blossom out in all you do.
grandeur of the place, ai d the wealth and
cultured taste of the Princess at once
charmed and won me.
Khadi, placing great tiger skin rugs for
us in massive chairs, bowed himself from
our presence, saying he was going to ap
prise the Princess. 1 sat as one in a dream,
yet my glance wandered to all parts of the
magnificently furnished room, and I be
held, what I had never before beheld, the
handsome doors leading, apparently, to an
inner room. They were of heavy inlaid
teak, and reached from floor to ceiling.
While I was admiring these, they opened
from the inner side, and, as they did so, a
strong incense arose, making a heavy va
por which filled the room, and sent a lan
guorous sense through my whole being. I
cannot exactly describe the feeling, but it
was as if another consciousness had entered
and taken possession of me, and all my
old self had been subdued into m thingness.
As the incense gradually died away, I saw
standing in the doorway so silently open
ed, the form of Khadi, his piercing eyes
fixed upon me, and seeming to unconscious
ly command me.. In that wonderful and
irresistible voice of his (it always remind
ed me of the graceful coil of a cobra around
its prey) he said, without removing his
gaze from my face:
‘“Behold, the Princess Yulah!’ and then
I beheld a vision, for I did not believe that
mere flesh and blood could claim so much
of loveliness; the fairest, sweetest, rarest
woman—a pcet’s dream of a woman! It
is needless to tell yon, that in my condition
of mind it did not r< quire more than her
gracious smile to bring me to her feet, and
with what sort of speech I presented the
box of precious ointment Ido not know.
I only know she made a gracious rt ply,
and motioned Khadi to take it. which he
did. and that same act crowned my folly.
In a burst of el< quence I besought her
(hsving long been prepared to love her
from the reports of her grace and beauty
and worth) to accept me, even as she had
accepted the box I offered, not as a neces
sity of her life, nor as an adornment, but as
a sort of box myself, filled with the most
precious sentiment for her, and worthless
but ’or her using.
‘ My lad, it was the grande pastioneoixny
life. In that moment I saw and loved and
pleaded to my ideal, and no other passion
has ever effaced the glory of that moment
of self surrender, but—l will tell you all
in si quence. She smiled upon me, and in
a rare voice, like to one I knew but could
not place, she softly said that the prayer I
had uttered should not, could not, go un
rewarded, and, bending forward, she
seemed to kiss me upon my brow. I
sought to embrace her, but she moved
back, and put up a restraining hand. It
was enough happiness—that promise and
that assurance! For several weeks I
went in just such a manner, to see her, al
ways seeing her under similar conditions,
and yet I was so deeply infatuated as nev
er to wonder. Khadi was always there,
always that strange distance, but I com
forted myself with the thought that, after
marriage, it would not be so. This hasten
ed my impatience, and I began to urge the
Princess to consummate my happiness.
Strange to say, she was not hard to con
vince, for one so coy; but she assured me
there were matters to be brought to my at
tention before the desire of my heart could
be attained. I urged her to name them,
and finally she confessed that in marrying
me she should have to abandon her estate
as Princess; it would oblige her also to
part with the devoted services of Khadi,
and this she could not do—and leave him
destitute—as he had been too faithful a
servitor. I was rejoiced at the pro.-pect
of at last getting rid of Khadi (who was
eternally at her side, and whom I was
st re kept her so aloof from me) and I
asked her to name the sum she wished to
settle upon Khadi; I would see that the
one who had served her so faith ully
should not go uncared for. Khadi bowed
obsequiously, and I felt my heart sii k
somewhat as the Princess named a sum
which was a good half of my fortune; I
must have winced, for she instantly re
minded me that I had before sworn (in a mo-
A Modern Ixion.
(From First Page.)
ment of infatuated generosity) that no price
was too great for me to pay for her love.
“Well, I agreed to the terms, and the
papers were to be prepared and signed up
on our wedding day. I departed rejoic
ing, but it was always an uncomfortable
mystery to me that as soon as I left her
presence (or, rather, as soon as Khadi de
posited me at my own door—for he always
accompanied me to and from the presence
of my inamorata) I felt depressed, as if
there were a war of two natures going on
within me. I could not have told why I
disliked Khadi, but in his presence I was
absolutely without will, and wholly unable
to shake off the influence.
“Well, to make an end of this—for I am
growing weaker, lad, and this is the epi
logue of my life—the day for my wedding
with the Princess came; the morning find
ing me full of bt th anticipation and an un
accountable depression. I busied myself
about my affairs, and when the hour of
the ceremony arrived, I had the papers all
ready for Khadi, except my signature,
which I intended writing in the presence of
Yulah. Khadi came, as usual, and we went
as usual to the place where the Princess re
sided ; when we arrived, I found that Shami,
with two other men whom they introduced
to me as a Magistrate and a Priest, were
there. The two men were as villainous a
pair as ever I saw, but I had no thought
tor anything save the great event about to
be consummated. With few preliminaries
the papers were read, approved, signed and
witnessed by the two men—the Priest
and the Magistrate; I kept them, however,
and would not turn them over to Khadi
until after the ceremony. It was to be ac
cording to the Buddhist rite, and Khadi,
as usual, retired to acquaint the Princess
of our presence, and of my impatience.
“She came in the same sweet, gracious
manner in which she always came, Khadi,
as usual by her side. The Priest stood up,
the service began, and it was not long be
fore he had proi ounced us husband and
wife. With a glad heart and a low ex
clamation of joy, I sprang forward to em
brace my bride, and found myself clasp
ing—air. At the same moment a terrific
blow was rained upon my head, and I fell
unconscious. How long I lay thus Ido
not know, but when I n covered myself I
was in the same room, in Shami s den, and
stretched out upon a couch. An aged
slave woman was my attendant, and she
told me that I had been there a week, rav
ing and in a fearful state. I asked for the
Khadi and the Princess, and little by lit
tle I learned the whole diabolical plot.
Khadi was none other than a celebrated
Indian magician, and a most arrant old
rogue. Shami was no better, and I, being
easily led, was a ready victim to the hyp
notic influence of Khadi and my own van
ity. Khi di, by another name, was cele
brated all over the country for his marvel
lous power, and Shami, seeing my weak
ness, conceived the plan of robbing me.
“Khadi possessed a wonderful incense,
wh ch had the power of giving form to this
wonderlul creation of my own desire—for
the Princess was my desire, my ideal. It
was part of Khadi’s power to realize the
intense wish of his victims, or subjects,
and as I had every other thing in life save
that one perfect thing, it was the desire
uppermost in my heart.
“When I recovered I found that the
beautiful doors, v hich so fascinated me when
I first entered this place, were nothing but a
wonderful cabinet, and upon examining it,
I found a quantity of the powder which
Khadi had used. I ordered the cabinet
sent to my place, and kept the powder, not
at all believing it could ever be of any mo
ment. But, one night, in a reckless spirit,
I burned some of the incer s°, and my
Princess did appear It was a melancholy
joy to behold her—my wife, yet no woman!
Throughout the lon g years of my life, I have
had her presence when I so willed, and to
night, lad, for the last time, I shall see her.
Stay—you shall see her also.” Then he
arose, walking feebly to a small desk,
which he unlocked, from which he drew a
sma'l, golden box.
“What became of those men?” I asked,
rousing from my rug, and watching him
WOMAN’S WORK.
prepare the incense.
“Hal What? 01—yes!” he replied, ab
sently: “They secured the money, and
left, and not a trace of them was ever
found.” Unlocking the great door of the
cabinet, he knelt before it, and applied a
light to the incense. In a moment the
same sweet, langucrous odor I had known
in boyhood, swept through the room, and
the place was filled with a dense vapor. Sud
denly I saw the face of my grandfather
grow radiant, and he threw up his hands,
crying out in a passionate voice: “Yulah,
Yulah, my beloved one, dear and cherished
dream of my life, look upon me, touch
me. let me hold thee fast in my arms, once,
once, only once!” and, rising to his feet, with
outstretched arms he tottered toward the
cabinet, clasping his arms as if about a be
loved one, and fell forward—dead!
For Woman’s Wonk.
A RainxJ Sermon.
THIS is a rainy day in winter, and, as
usual, the rain is reminding me of
many things and of days long past.
Among my earliest recollections is one of
a very long ride of many hundred miles.
My sister and I were left orphans when we
were very young, and our grandparents
took us from our Kentucky home, and
adopted us into their noithern one in New
England. I can just remember leaving
green fields and fruit trees all in bloom the
first of April, and when I reached my new
home finding it surrounded by deep snow
drifts, for it chanced to be a late spring
that year. I had never before seen a snow
drift, or snow at all—except as a few flakes
came and melted in the b.ack mud; the
change frem flowers to stow was not
pleasing to me, and I have never gotten
over those first impres’ions. Si you can
undtrstand that, if \\,must storm to day, I
am glad it is rain we are having.
I am rather glad of a stormy day, for it
is candlemas, and there cannot possibly be
the faintest of sun shadows at noon, no
matter how wide awake bears or other
sleeping animals may be, or how much
they look for shadows. And winter came
so early—not that these sayings, wise or
otherwise, regarding the day when winter
is supposed to be halt gone, can make the
least d fference, tut we will think atd
talk about it. So while lam listening to
the steady down pour of the rain, I have
been thinking what a curious, dreary, hap
py, sorrowful world this is—just as we
happen to take it.
Not long ago I read one of lan MscLa
ren’s books, called “The Potter’s Wheel.”
It was a series of short sermons without
texts. In them the author explains many
things in answer to the universal “Why? ’
He tells us that all our vexations and trials,
all our pains and sorrows, even those that
hurt most cruelly, are only the workings
of “The Potter’s Wheel,” whrrebyall the
rough corners, all the blemishes in our
lives—and heaven pity us that there
should be so many blemishes—are smoothed
away that we may be made as perfect as it
is possible for human beings to be. Noth
ing done in wrath, but only in merciful
pity for our good.
Even when the Reaper takes our fail est
flower, or th eon e upon whom we most de
pended or whom we m< st earnestly loved,
it is only being transplanted to more genial
fields, and the separation is only for a lit
tle while. The author believes that the
“Dear Departed” know, in their heavenly
home, all that is passing here, and are still
happy because they understand why ail
these things must be, even why the sin
ning and why the sorrowing.
If we could only remember these things
how much better it would be for us. I
used to wonder just what was meant by
‘ Lord, I believe, help thou mine unbe
lief” Now it seems clear tome. We do
believe in our Heavenly Father, and we
love the blessed Saviour of men, and yet
our faith is so lukewarm that we still ques
tion why so many things are as they are,
and instead of trusting with all our heart
when we say “Thy will be done,” we are
still—perhaps almost unconsciously—full
of a: xiety and worry, for fear this or that
trouble may come to us or to our beloved
ones. This continual worry “fancying
clouds where no clouds be,” spoils so many
lives ar;d seems so ungrsteful to the Author
of all good. And even when there are
clouds, as there sometimes must be, let us
have faith to believe that they will soon
disappear in the sunshine of His love.
I remember reading a little story a long
time ago, which was something like this:
It was said to be a true story, and was re
lated by Helen Hunt Jackson in her charm
ing book, called “Bits of Travel at H< me.”
Mrs. Jackson was traveling in Colorado
and came to a new town. She saw there
a poor old woman whose home was a bit
of a shanty. Her husband and two n’dest
sons had died during the war. Several
other children had died of consumption,
until she had but one left, her baby, Ben
ny, now grown almost to manhood, and he
seemed in a fairway to follow the others,
hastened by the dreaded disease, consump
tion So to save her boy’s life, if possible,
-he disposed of her home and her little all
in Mdssouri, (she had lost almost every
thing during the war) bought a wag in and
two horses, took a few goods and she and
Benny came to Colorado. She said: “I
felt sorry to leave my home, but I could
do it for Benny’s sake, and God is here.”
She had sold most of her furniture and
clothing to get food, but every few min
utes during the recital, the would say,
“but I have never wanted for anything:
God has always taken care of me.” I
could not help comparing that woman’s
taith with that of most of us; and how
great must be her reward in heaven.
And still it rains, jutt the same steady
down pour, and still I am thinking of
many things. I wish I could weave my
thoughts into more pleasing fabric, but,
such as it is, I will send out this little bit
of a rainy day sermon, h ping it may And
favor with a few who may read it, and pos
sibly give a ray of sunshine to someone in
whose life are many rainy days.
No matter how dark the clouds, we will
never forget that God is Love, or the wel
come that *0 trust is awaiting us in the
•‘Morning Land.” Alice M. Hale.
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