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sexton. Oh, that we might have in Atlanta a great religious awakening. Rght wth One Another. We have got also to prepare the way by getting right with one another. Forgiveness is a condi tion of the spiritual life. It cannot be entered upon ■ without it. No soul can ever step into the king dom which has not received the forgiveness of God, and no soul can enjoy the privileges and blessings of the spiritual life that does not maintain the condition of forgiveness. Forgiveness also is the condition of Heaven. No soul will ever enter heaven harboring unforgive ness. I care not what the church relation may be, how well one prays and talks and sings; unless he forgives, he will be damned. Jesus Christ said: “If ye forgive not men their trespasses, neither will your Father forgive your trespasses.” These are strong words, but they were spoken by Jesus Christ, the author of salvation. Whenever you show me that one can enter heaven with unforeiven sin, then I am prepared to say that it is possible for him to enter heaven with unfor giveness toward his brother, but not until then. Sin cannot enter heaven. It has got to be forgiven on this side. It has got to be forgiven durng life. Many people act as if there is to be some sort of sub-station between death and the judgment where one will stop and fix up all the rents that he had in his garment when he died. There is no such thing taght in the Bible. “As the tree falleth, so shall it lie.” If a man dies with unforgiveness in his heart he will go up to the judgment that way, and if he goes up that way, he will be sent down to hell. There is no other place for him to go. Heaven is a place of fellowship; it is a place of love, brotherly love. The man who refuses to forgive challenges God not to forgive him. Listen at the pattern prayer which the Lord gave His people: “Forgive us our trespasses even as we forgive those that tres pass against us.” Think of it: “Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those that trespass against us.” Have you thought of that prayer as limiting God’s forgiveness of us? Think of a soul praying to God for forgiveness of sin and at the same time carrying unforgiveness in his heart toward some one else. It is equivalent to a prayer for the dam nation of God. I tell you, it is time we were wak ing up on this line. Either let us pitch the Lord’s prayer overboard or quit our childish whining about the unjust treatment of others and our unwilling ness to forgive. If it is argued that the offense is too great, and that it is impossible to forgive, then make up your mind to spend eternity in hell. We must forgive, if we are to be forgiven; we must forgive, if we are to have power. Restitution for Wrong Doing. Our preparation must also be of the nature of restitution for wrong doing. I have no sympathy or patience with that religion that does not lead one to restore that which has been wrongfully taken. The other day I heard Dr. Chadwick relate one of the most remarkable stories of this character that I ever heard. It occurred in one of the great meetings of Gypsy Smith in Scotland. A beautiful young woman of high social life had gone to the bad. The whole country was ablaze with it and she, in order to escape some of the blame, impli cated a bright, popular and useful young preacher in that country. This, of course, made the sensa tion greater. It got into the courts. It was aired through the newspapers and talked by the wayside. The young preacher was found guilty, and to some extent her crime was mitigated. Years elapsed, and while Gypsy Smith’s meeting was in progress this woman got under conviction of sin. She went to Gypsy for counsel. He saw that there was something in the way of her salva tion. He asked her what about it. He did not know her and knew nothing, of course, about her life. “Oh, said she in reply to this question, “There is nothing the matter.” Said he, “Have you any grudge against anybody?” “No,” she said, “I have had, but I have forgiven all.” She came back to him again and again. Every time her The Golden Age for May 10, 1906. burden seemed to be greater. Finally he said, “Now, woman, there is something that you are not willing to do. You may just as well own it up. I am no priest, but I will help you through it if I can.” She then told him her story and wound up by saying, “Sir, that young minister had no more to do with my shame than you have. It was every whit a made up job to help me out of my disgrace. I have wronged him. Oh, I can never restore him, for I have robbed him of his good name and useful ness.” Os course it was a fearful condition. Then Gypsy Smith said, “You must confess the way in which you wronged him and make it just as public as you made the original charge.” Said she, “It. will never do, I will be disgraced worse than ever.” “Then,” said he, “it is hell.” The next day she went to the judge of the court and told him her story and asked the privilege of getting up before the court and making the state ment. The judge granted the request and she sat in the same box where she had once made the charge and told her story. It is said the like of it has never been experienced in that country. The judge and the court with all the people wept and cried like children. As she told her story God spoke peace to her, which was the first peace she had ever known, and her face was so transfigured as to throw a pall over the entire house. Oh, Christian friends, let us reflect upon our lives. What is our relation to our brother? Have we robbed him of his money? Then we have got to go to him and pay it back. If there is no chance for us to do it, then we have got to go to him and make an honest confession. Have we robbed him of his good name? Then we must do our best to restore him. Soul Burden and Prayer. Also there must be the preparation of soul bur den, and this comes alone by prayer. The other day a woman came to me greatly dis turbed about a relative living in San Francisco. She had not been able to get communication with her since the earthquake and fire. At last account she was living in the section of the city where the conflagration has been most destructive. f could not censure her for being alarmed. She had something to be alarmed over. But I could not help thinking, why is it so that God’s people are not, alarmed about the condition of the souls of their loved ones? Here we are with friends and loved ones out of Christ. If we believe the Bible, we are bound to believe they are lost, lost not only for life with all that is best, but lost for eternity, lost from God, lost from heaven, lost from the fam ily reunion that will take place up there. How can we be content! How can we trifle with the little things that mar our spiritual life and ser vice, while around us are those that are near and dear to us that are forever lost? Let this burden settle upon us. Let us open our eyes and get a vision of the lost world. Let us see our loved ones and friends hanging over it by the brittle thread of life, and we cannot help giving ourselves to their salvation. The Prepaid Manuscript. By MRS. J. F. MILLER. It happened in the Tennessee mountains, among a happy-hearted people, who seemingly have no memory of yesterday, and no thought of to-morrow, an unlettered people, yet so original and natural, that it’s delightful to be among them. My husband and I were there for a few months, and it was my first experience among the authors of “We’uns and You’ens, ” and makers of moon shine whiskey. One afternoon I started out to make a milk and butter engagement for our small family. Seeing two long-horned, healthy-looking cows lazily brow sing on a grass lot fronting a mountain home, I stepped up on the rude front porch and knocked, at what I guessed to be the family room door. A robust-looking middle-aged woman invited me in. After taking my seat, she remarked: “You’ens must be a stranger in these parts.” “Yes, madam, I am. My name is Ellis—Mrs. Ellis. I was raised in the lowlands about two hundred miles from here, in Middle Tennessee, near the Kentucky line.” “You’ens sho’ is fur from home. My name, hit used ter be Smiley—Jemimah Smiley—but I’ve been married ter Bill Looney seventeen year this incomin’ fall.” After making a satisfactory milk and butter en-, gagement, she proposed to give her oldest daughter to me, to do housework, by saying: “You’ens might start out an’ travel all day, an’ not find a nayger ter werk. fer we’uns don’t ’low fer ’em ter stay heah, an’ they done larnt long ago that mountain air is not good fur naygers. ” 1 told her to send her daughter over Monday morning, and I’d give her a trial. She came, ac cording to agreement, and took up her work, as though she did not mind it. She was as pretty as a‘picture, and had such a merry-hearted way of singing while she worked. Her father’s home was in sight of ours, and every Sunday afternoon we noticed a young sorrel horse hitched to a scrub oak near his front gate, and one Monday morning the pretty mountain girl failed to come. Next day I went over to inquire the cause. A death-like still ness reigned about the premises. Even the old watch dog looked lonesome and sad eyed and Mrs. Looney looked as though a great family grief had suddenly been hers to bear. “I came over, Mrs. Looney, to see why your daughter has not returned to her work, we were afraid she was sick.” “Why Miss Ellis,” (the mountaineers invariably use Miss for Mrs.) “that good fer nothin’ Bob Ridley, what lives down in Turkey Cove, tuk an stole Mandy las’ Sunday. “Ever since this las’ gone Christmas he’s been cornin’ up here ter Sunday school at the Metho dis’ church, and some time he’d come home with her ter dinner. “Me an her pap didn’t think nothin of it, fur weuns lowed in reason, he knowed twas our on liest gal, an she in dresses above her shoe tops. But bless yer life, Miss Ellis, he got some young sters to go with him fur the license, and they wuz married an gone, so we’uns heerd a breath of it. The cheeky rascal wuz jist that shore of gittin the po chile, that he even brung along his mammy’s old nag, with a side saddle on her, and hitched her way out yonder in the skirt o’ the woods, kind o’ hidin out, fur ter take her back home on. Hits er plum sight, the way he managed his meanness, sho!” I talked as consolingly as I could, bade her good-bye, and started home, thinking as I walked along “Thus it is, our daughters leave us, Those we love, and those who love us,” etc. Scarce a week had passed, when early one morn ing I heard some one “gently tapping at my cham ber door,” and opening same, I found standing in the hall, a ten-year-old boy, who handed me a pitcher full of something, and a note. The latter read as follows: “deer Miss ellis, i heerd you’uns rit fer the pa pers, Mandy an’ Bob, theys bin home, pleze rite a purty peece an’ sen it to ther paper ’bout them giftin’ married las Sunday, tel erbout his pap er givin him too pigs an a cow, an her pap’ll giv ’em sumpin after he gits thru sulkin’ bout him steelin mandy, put in ther paper thet bobs mamy is ded, an cant giv em nothin’, but her mammy wil give ernuff fer bofe of ’em. som quiltz, a fether bed, a chist an som chikens. i sen’ a pitcher ov swete milk ter pay you’ens fer ritin ther peece. mirandy Smiley.” I must confess it required unusual effort, to har ness the muses, and start them off on an errand like this, but for three reasons, I could not resist the appeal. First, her earnestness, simple faith, and original ity. impressed me. Second, a mother’s love through early for giveness to the youthful offenders, was to be ad mired, and thirdly—it was pre-paid! 5