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CHAPTER V, (Continued )
"Summon up your fortitude, my love,
I beseech you, for I am deeply Inter
ested In the accompllshro- t of our
purpose. I have an uneasy conscious
ness of a brewing tempest, and if it bo
possible I wish to ascertain in what
quarter to mistrust treachery."
"If you remain undaunted I shall be
cure to keep my courage."
; "Go then, my love, to prepare a warm
mantle, and we will take our dinner
upstairs, and the moment the tray is
removed we will slip away unperceived
into the garden, from which it will be
asy to steal across the lawn, since
none of the servants venture out after
. As they had arranged, the countess
and her daughter slipped through an
unfrequented corridor and reached the
balcony, from which a long flight of
teps descended to the garden, and
while the whole household believed
them sitting quietly in the little bou
doir, as was their custom after dinner,
they were speeding along across the
park, holding each other by the hand,
while the evening shadows gathered
quickly around their pathway.
"Mamma," whispered Lady Felicie,
as soon as she found breath, "M. Pierre
may have seen us as we crossed the
; "No, my love," answered the coun
iess triumphantly. "From my retreat
In the rear I saw him emerge from that
long unused door under the portico; he
locked it carefully behind him, and
stole along through the shrubbery like
a guilty creature. He had something
under his arm, too; he has half an hour
At least the advantage over us, but I
hope to discover something concerning
Lis movements before we return."
i "And you are not afraid?" queried
Lady Felicie in a trembling voice.
"Ah, my child, does not love foher
iyoung make the tigress fight desperate
ly against fearful odds? Will not the
gentlest and most timid of the brute
creation dare anything to protect their
offspring from menacing danger? I
have an instinctive fear that peril is at
hand; for myself I should be little
alarmed; for your sake, my Felicie, I
am ready to brave anything."
' Lady Felicie pressed her hand warm
ly, but she still trembled.
"I am not sure that I am more afraid
of M. Pierre if he discovers ua than
of the ghostliest ghost that was ever
, "He is the more dangerous person,
certainly; but we will not be seen. You
said Jeannot put you into a place com
pletely screened with vines. Can you
find it again?"
; "Oh, yes; keep hold of my hand,
mamma, and I will lead you thither."
They passed on the rest of the way
in silence, walked very swiftly till they
reached the low underbrush, and keep
ing as much as possible in the shade of
Felicie drew her breath more quiver
ingly as they gained the woods, but
-went on steadily to the same retreat in
to which Jeannot had introduced her.
They were scarcely settled there be
fore the crackling boughs announced
an approach. '
i The two watchers held their breath,
and peered forward. jj,
The same dark figure with ' the
shovel, the slow pace and weird accom
panying light this time it was passing
into the wood.
i The countess, holding her daughter's
land firmly, stepped out from her hid
ing place as soon as It had passed a
short distance beyond them.
Lady Felicie hung back a moment,
obeying the somewhat impatient com
mand of the countess, who whispered
cautiously: . ' . ......
"Do not spoil all, Felicie; come with
me, or I shali follow alone."
"Oh, mamma, suppose it turns
around and sees us?" returned Felicie,
in the same suppressed voice.'
"I cannot help it; I will know who
and what it is; but the shade on this
side will prevent our detection if we
And the heroic countess trod lightly
on the mossy bank, taking care to
avoid the drier and more rustling path
way, and left her daughter to follow
behind her. .
. The luminous circle in which the
dark figure walked was their guide, for
as they advanced the gloomy darkness
deepened. It paused at length and was
stationary for a few seconds.
The countess, holding her pistol with
deeperate firmness, passed on to the
utter horror of Lady Felicie, who dared
not, however, remain behind.
Nearer and nearer to the mysterious
figure advanced the two ladies. Lady
Felicie's heart beat suffocatingly, but
the countess compelled herself to be
sternly calm, when just as they seemed
to reach It lo! light, figure and all had
vanished.' ,; . ,
' There was a brad riff "In the
dark , canopy ; of. : leaves ; above
them, ' where . a mighty.,, monarch
of the wood had been stircken
from his place by a lightning stroke,
and the starlight and pale radlanco of
the waxing moon shone down; dissi
pating a little of the darkness. They
could see the trunk of the trees, the
black shadows cast on the ground by
the huge limbs above, and It was very
evident there was no longer present the
tall figure of the mysterious guide they
had followed thus far.
The countess stood motionless, pet
rified with astonished dismay. Her
daughter scarcely knew whether to feel
relieved, or more deeply terrified.
, "What can it mean?" whispered the
countess; "this items incredible. I
saw him so plainly Just here by this
huge tree, and as if by magic he has
vanished entirely. He certainly could
not have passed on that is impossi
ble; and he is not hero that is equal
"Oh, mamma, if it were really a
"I do not believe in ghosts, Felicie,"
was the dry response.
And still the countess looked around
Suddenly Felicie, half dead with fear,
seized her arm. She turned hastily,
and behold! some distance down the
path was the same figure retrac
ing his stepsj it seemed like some spec
tre watchman on his. rounds.
Even the stout heart of the countess
was appalled. But another involun
tary exclamation from Felicie gave her
Behold! from the opposite direction
came another 1 figure, dark cloaked,
spade equipped, likewise attended by
the floating circle of light.
"What!" thought the countess, "two
ghosts, possibly three, and at this early
hour? Now am I certain that this has
a deeper significance than ever."
"Mamma, mamma!" implored Felicie,
"what will become of us?"
"We must secrete ourselves some
where. Don't tremble so, my precious
one, there is time for us to retreat."
The words died off from her lips as
a strange voice suddenly exclaimed:
"Trust yourselves with me there is
not a moment to lose."
From whence did it come, the ground
or the ekies? Poor Felicie was beyond
shrieking; her heart stood still, and
she felt a cold chill creeping over her
But the countess, struggling for
calmness, though her voice shook, an
"Who are you and where?"
"A friend; one whom you need never
fear to trust. Come!"
As if by magic, the great tree trunk
against which the countess leaned,
yawned, and there stood the dark fig
ure who had so strangely disappeared.
"Come in hither quickly and you are
Still, though the other apparitions
were rapidly nearlng, the countess hes
itated. "Who are you?" repeated she again.
He reached forward, and whispered
a name in her ear.
"Come, Felicie!" exclaimed the lady,
and the daughter was strangely thrilled
by the blended relief and sadness of her
They stepped, both of them, into
what seemed a circular closet, and the
weird, brownie doorway closed after
Their unseen companion pointed out
several holes in the gnarled trunk,
"There-are convenient windows; you
may still watch your friends, if it is
for that you ventured here."
HE space allowed
only close quarters,
and Felicie could
hear her mother
. "Mamma," whis
pered she, "you are
ill?" and gaining
courage herself at
the seeming nroa-
tration of her
momer, sue adaea
cheerfully, "I am certain we may trust
this gentleman, whoever he is, and the
moment they are gone we can return
to the chateau."
:"No, my child, I am not ill, nor in
the least frightened. I rest secure and
"Is that quite true?" whispered the
"Entirely," was the low response.
"Thank you. I hope the darkness
does not trouble you, nor the closeness
of the air. I might give you light, but
it' would betray our retreat. But, hush!
they are approaching. The rendezvous
i3 at the other tree."
The countess bent her eye to the
little aperture, and plainly discerned
three figures, all alike, so that one
might.be readily taken for the other.
They sat down, not two yards from
the tree which sheltered their unsus
.."Well, Jaques, what news tonight?"
said M. Pierre's dry, rasping voice;
"how goes on the cause?" ".' ..
"" "Gloriously, comrade! Paris Is all
in a ferment, and the fever is spread
ing through the country. What think
you a great company of them went
out to that tyrant Louis' palace, and
compelled him to consent to some of
the Assembly '8 requirements. A few
more such riots, and the whole thing is
done, so say a host of the leaders. Then
hurrah' for a republic! We will make
our proud masters drink of the cup
they wouldhave given to us."
- "You are quite sure it is true?" ques
tioned M. Pierre, cautiously. "There
will be no mistake about it?"
"Not a bit of it... Jaques came direct
from Paris to Frejtis. Why, they have
killed half a dozen of the aristocratic
upholders already; they are expecting
a general rise" every night; the king
himself suspects It, for he attempted to
escape, but they brought him back in
"Then our plans may safely go on?"
"To be sure. Make certain of all the
treasure you can; It won't be long be
fore the whole peasantry will come for
ward to take their share. What harm
In looking out for ours ahead?"
The three laughed coarsely.
"We haven't got a very mean for
tune stowed away already," observed
Jaques. "I tell you what, comrade
Pierre, you have managed the thing
famously. You ought to go to Paris,
and take a hand there."
"Perhaps I shall, when the outbreak
comes;' to tell the truth, the peasants
of the Languedoc lands owe me a little
grudge, and I shouldn't care to remain
here when they obtain control. They
don't consider that the count compels
me to be harsh with them."
"I shouldn't like to stand in his shoes
in that day," laughed the other man.
I don't doubt but they will tear Iiim
limb from limb."
"You will look out for the girl, if I
shouldn't be around? she's my prize,
you know," said M. Pierre.
"What, the daughter? she's a comely
wench, they say."
"Yes, and as haughty as a queen to
me. It's out of revenge that I mean tc
take possession of her, after her par
ents are killed," replied M. Pierre, it
a fierce tone.
Felicie reached forward and grasped
her mother's icy cold fingers; theii
unseen companion clenched his hand
M. Pierre went on;
"I've brought some more of the plate
tonight. The count's keeping away is
a store of luck for us. . They don't
think of using the richest service at all.
and no one looks after it. It was a
bright idea, playing the ghost. They
are all afraid of their own shadow,
and don't think of attending to half
their duty. The moment the sun sets
not a soul of them ventures out of the
chateau, and I doubt if the peasants
leave their cottages. The field is lefi
clear to us."
"It is cleverly managed, comrade, I
grant you that. I have brought
some more pikes. We must bury these,
tod. But I reckon they won't lie long
in the ground. If the signs don't fail,
it won't be a month before we are
"Do you know what the signal will
"All whom we dared to trust. But
we must wait for the tide to set in from
Paris. There are hundreds ready to
spread the spirit through the country
when the scheme is ripe."
"I have spoken for a fishing smack
to wait for me off St. Thomas," said
M. Pierre, at length.
"What is that for?"
"To take the treasure to safety, and
maybe I shall go too."
"That is queer. I should think you
would stay to see the fun out."
"Maybe; but I shall want to take
Lady Felicie away."
"She'll have to leave off the 'lady'
precious soon, I'm thinking. But come,
if we are to bury the pikes and the sil
ver, it's time to attend to the digging.
Jolly ghosts are we! It was rare sport
for me to throw my. brimstone around
when that old demented Jeannot was
coming toward me."
"We must thank him for the idea; I
should never have thought of it but for
him. I believe you won't be able to
turn the old dotard; he'll stand up for
that proud woman and her daughter
to! the last minute; I can swear to
"Then he will get knocked over him
self, that's all," was the brutal re
jolner. And taking up their shovels the
three worthies went forward a little dis
tance, and they in the tree could hear
the rapid shoveling and careless talk
for a half hour at least. Then slowly
one by one they dispersed, and all was
silent in the forest.
When the coast was once more clear
the countess exclaimed fervently:
"Thank Heaven that I was prompted
to come. I shall at least know where
to look for my enemy. Oh, why does
the count linger in Paris?"
"Because he could not leave. An
edict has gone forth from the Assembly
prohibiting any one from leaving Paris.
It will not hinder him long, however. I
left means for . their escape, and you
may expect them any momentnow."
i "You are so kind," faltered the
"It is all I live for, except to see poor
France cleared from a weight of tyran
ny," was the sad-toned reply. "I learn
ed of this conspiracy through a com
rade of Jaques, in Paris, and have cau
tiously watched their movements. A
blessed accident revealed to me the
hollow trunk of this huge tree. I went
to work cautiously and sawed out the
door, fitting it with secret hinges.. I
have excavated a lateral passage below.
See, this board can be lifted. There
will be a comfortable and safe retreat
under aground Just below that huge
rock, in two days more. I shall store
food there. It is for you and your
daughter, if the terrible days come I
dread come before you are able to es
cape from these shores.. Innocent and
noble hearted as you are, you will be
sacrificed because of your connection
with Count Languedoc, unless I save
you.". ',- .;;- . ". -
"Heaven bless you!' ejaculated Lady
Fellclo. . : - : . ' )
The countess struggled a moment
with herself, and then said, firmly:
"You must save the count, likewise,1
or I ahall not' stir a step from the
chateau!" , ''.',
"If it be possible; : I will do my
best," was the grave reply. ' 1
"Now I can exclaim also Heaven
bless you, Emlle!" sobbed the countess.
v"Emile!" exclaimed Lady Fe-icle.
h, mamma, Is it Emile? How I wJ.'i
it were not dark!" '
(TO Bl COXTtXTTIO.) -" ,'
The Gaelic Tongue. .'
The number of persons in the United
Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland
who use Gaelic as their native lan
guage is much larger than is common
ly supposed; It includes 660,000 in Ire
land, 350,000 U Wales and 234,000 In
Scotland. '' ' " '
LAST SUNDAY'S SUBJECT.
From tlio Following Text) "I Khnll Go
to IIlui" Second Hook of Humuol,
Chnptttr xll, Verso 23 The Future
Life of the Just.
HERE is a very
sick child in the
abode of David the
which stalks up the
dark lane of the
poor and puts its
smothering hand on
lip and nostril of
the wan and wasted
also mounts the pal
ace stalrs.and bend
ing over the pillow, blows into the face
of a young prince the fro3ts of pain and
death. Tears are wine to the King of
Terrors. Alas! for David the king.
He can neither sleep nor eat, and lies
prostrate on his face, weeping and wail
ing until the palace rings with the out
cry of woe.
What are courtly attendants, or vic
torious armies, or conquered provinces,
under such circumstances? What to
any parent is all splendid surroundings
when his child Is sick? Seven days
have passed on. There, in that great
house, two eyelids are gently closed,
two little hands folded, two little feet
quiet, one heart still. The servants
come to bear the tidings to the king,
but they cannot make up their minds
to tell him, and they stand at the door
whispering about the matter, and Da
vid hears them and he looks up and
says to them, "Is the child dead?"
"Yes, ho is dead." David rouses him
self up, washes himself, puts on new
apparel, and r.its down to food. What
power hushed that tempest? What
strength was it that lifted up that king
whom grief had dethroned? Oh, it was
the thought that he would come again
into the possession of that darling
child. No gravedigger's spade could
hide him. The wintry blasts of death
could not put out the bright light.
There would bo a forge somewhere that
with silver hammer would weld the
broken links. In a city where the hoofs '
of the pale horse never strike the pave
ment he would clasp his lost treasure.
He wipes away the tears from his eyes,
and he clears the choking grief from
his throat, and exclaims, "I shall go to
Was David right or wrong? If we
part on earth will we meet again in the
next world? "Well," says some one,
"that seems to be an impossibility.
Heaven is so large a place we never
could find our kindred there." Going
Into some city without having appoint
ed a time and place for meeting, you
might wander around for weeks and for
months, and perhaps for years, and
never see cacn other; and heaven is
vaster than all earthly cities together,
and how are you going to find your de
parted friend in that country? It Is
so vast a realm. John went up on one
mountain of inspiration, and he looked
off upon the multitude, and he said:
"Thousands of thousands." Then he
came upon a greater altitude of Inspira
tion and looked off upon it again, and
he said: "Ten thousand times ten thou
sand." And then he came on a higher
mount of inspiration, and looked off
again and he said: "A hundred and for
ty and four thousand and thousands of
thousands." And he came on a still
greater height of inspiration, and he
looked off again, and exclaimed: "A
great multitude that no man can num
ber." Now I ask, how are you going to find
your friends in such a throng as that?
Is not this 'dea we have been enter
taining after all a falsity? Is this doc
trine of future recognition of friends
In heaven a guess, a myth, a whim, or
is it a granitic foundation upon which
the soul pierced of all ages may build
a glorious hope? Intense question!
Every heart in this audience throbs
right into it. There is in every soul
here the tomb of at least one dead.
Tremendous question! It makes the lip
quiver, and the cheek flush, and the en
tire nature thrill.' Shall We know each
other there? I get letters almost every
month asking me to discuss this sub
ject. I get a letter In a bold, scholarly
hand, on gilt-edged paper, asking me
to discuss this question, and I say: "Ah!
that is a curious man, and he wants a
curious question solved." But I get
another letter. It is written with a
trembling haud, and on what seems to
be a torn-out leaf of a book, and there
and here is the mark of a tear; and I
say: "Oh, that is a broken heart, and
it wants to be comforted."
' The object of this sermon is to take
this theory out of the region of surmise
and speculation Into the region of pos
itive certainty. People say, "It would
be very plea&ut if that doctrine were
true. I hope it may be true. Perhaps
it Is true. I wish it were true." But
I believe that I can bring an accumu
lation of argument to bear upon this
matter which will prove the doctrine of
future recognition as plainly as that
there is any heaven at all, and that the
kiss of reunion at the celestial gate will
be as certain as the dying kiss t 1Ae
door of the sepulchre.
What does my text imply? " shall
go to him." What consolation would It
be to David ,o go to his child if he
would not know him? Would David
have been allowed to record this antici
pation for the inspection of all ages if
it 'were a groundless anticipation? We
read in the first book 'of the Bible,
Abraham died and was gathered to his
people. Jacob died and was gathered
to his people. Moses died and was
gathered to his people. What people?
Why.thelr friends, their comrades, their
old companions. Of course It means
that It cannot .mean anything else.
Bo in the very beginning of the Bible
four times that is taken for granted.
The whole Now Testament is an arbor
over which this doctrine creeps like a
luxuriant vine full of purple clusters
of consolation. James, John, and Peter
followed Christ into the mountain. A
light falls from heaven on that moun
tain and lifts it into the glories of the
celestial. Christ's garments glow and
his face shines like the sun. The door
of heaven swings open. Two spirits
come down and alight on that moun
tain. The disciples look at them and rec
ognize them as Moses and Ellas. Now,
if those disciples standing on the earth
could recognize these two spirits who
had been for years in heaven, do you
tell me that we, with our heavenly eye
sight, will not be able to recognize
those who have gone out from among
us only five, ten, twenty, thirty years
You know very well that our Joy In
any circumstances is augmented by the
companionship of our friends. We can
not see a picture with less than four
eyes, or hear a song with less than
four ears. We want some one beside
us with whom to exchange glances and
sympathies; and I suppose the joy of
heaven is to be augmented by the fact
that we are to have our friends with us
when there rise before us the thrones
of the blest and when there surges up
in our ear the jubilate of the saved.
Heaven Is not a contraction. It Is
an expansion. If I know you here,
I will know you better there. Here I
see you with only two eyes, but there
the soul shall have a million eyes. It
will be immortality gazing on immor
talityransomed spirit in colloquy with
ransomed spirit victor beside victor.
When John Evans, the Scotch minister,
was seated in his study, his wife came
in and said to him. "My dear, do you
think we will know each other in hea
ven?" He turned to her and said, "My
dear, do you think we will be bigger
fools in heaven than we are here?"
Again, I accept this doctrine of fut
ure recognition because the world's expectancy-affirms
it. In all lands and
ages this theory is received. What
form of religion planted it? No form
of religion, for it is received under all
forms of religion. Then, I argue,' a
sentiment, a reeling, an anticipation,
universally planted, must have been
God-implanted, and if God-implanted,
it is rightfully implanted. Socrates
writes: "Who would not part with a
f great deal to purchase a meeting with
Orpheus and Homer? If it be true that
this Is to be the consequence of death,
I could even be able to die often."
There is a mother before the throne
of God. You siy her joy is full. Is it?
You say there can be no augmentation
of it. Cannot there be? Her son was
a wanderer and a vagabond on the
earth when that good mother died. He
broke her old heart. She died leaving
him In the wilderness of sin. She is
before the throne of God now. Years
pass, and that son repents of his crimes
and gives his heart to God and be
comes a useful Christian, and dies and
enters the gates of heaven. You tell
me that that mother's Joy cannot be
augmented. Let them confront each
other, the son and the mother. "Oh,''
she says to the angels of God, "re
joice with me! The dead is alive
again, and the lost is found. Hallelu
jah! I never expected to see this lost
one come back." The Bible says na
tions are to be born in a day. When
China comes to God will it not know
Dr. Abeel? When India comes, will it
not know Dr. John Scudder? When the
Indians come to God, will they not
know David Brainerd?
I see a soul entering heaven at last,
with covered face at the Idea that it
has done so little for Christ, and feel
ing borne down with unworthiness, and
it says to itself, "I have no right to be
here." A voice from a throne says,
"Oh, you forget that Sunday school
class you Invited to Christ! I was one
of them." And another voice says,
"You forget that poor man to whom you
gave a loaf of bread. I was that man."
And another says, "You forget that sick
one to whom you gave medicine tsr the
body and the soul. I was that one."
And then Christ, from a throne over
topping all the rest, will say, "Inas
much as ye did It to one of the least
of these, you did it to me." And then
the seraphs will take their harps from
the side of the throne, and cry, "What
song shall It be?" And Christ, bending
over the harpers, shall say, "It shall be
the Harvest Home!"
One more reason why I am disposed
to accept this doctrine of future recog
nitlon is that so many in their last
hour on earth have confirmed this the
ory. I speak not of persons who have
been delirious in their last moment,
and knew not what they were about;
but of persons who died In calmness
and" placidity, and who were not nat
urally superstitious. Often the glories
of heaven have struck the dying pil
low, and the departing man has said
he saw and heard those who had gone
away from him. How often it is in the
dying moments parents, see their de
parted children and children see their
departed parents. I came down to the
banks of the Mohawk River. It was
evening, and I wanted to go over the
river, and so I waved my hat and
shouted, and after awhile I saw some
one. waving on the. opposite bank, and
I heard him shout, and the boat came
across, and I got in and was trans
ported. And so I suppose it will be in
the evening of our life. We will come
down to the river of death and give a
signal to our friends on the other shore,
and they will give a signal hack to U8,
and the boat comes, and our departed
kindred are- the oarsmen, the fires of
the setting day tingelng the tops of the
Oh', have you never sat by such a
deathbed? In that hour you hear the
departing soul cry, "Hark! look!" You
hearkened and you looked. A little
child pining awiy because of the death
of its mother, gettlnc weaker and weak
er every day, was taken into the room
where hung the picture of her mother. j
She seemed to enjoy, looking at It, and
then she was taken away, and after
awhile died. In the last moment that
wan and wasted little one lifted her
hands, while her faco lighted up with
the glory of the next world, and cried
out, "Mother!" Do you tell me she did
not Bee her mother? She did. So in
my first settlement at Belleville a plain
man said to me. "What do you think
I heard last night? I was in the room
where one of my neighbors was dying.
He was a good man, and he said he
heard the angels of God singing be
fore the throne. I haven't much poetry
about me, but I listened, and I heard
them, too." Said I, "I have no doubt of
it." Why, we are to be taken up to
heaven at last by ministering spirits.
Who are they to be? Souls that went
up from Madras, or Antioch, or Jerusa
lem? Oh, no! our glorified kindred are
going to troop wound us.
Heaven is not a stately, formal place,
as I sometlmeg hear It described, a very
frigidity of splendor, where people
stand on cold formalities and go around
about with heavy crowns of gold on
their heads. No, that is not my idea
of heaven. My idea of heaven is more
like this: You are seated in the evening-tide
by the. fireplace, your whole
family there or nearly all of them there.
While you are seated talking and en
joying the evening hour, there is a
knock at the door, and the door opens,
and there comes in a brother that has
been long absent. He has been absent,
for years yon have not seen him, and
no sooner do you make up your mind
that it is certainly he than you leap
up, and the question is who shall give
him the first embrace. That Is my idea
of heaven a great home circle where
they are waiting for us. Oh, will you
not know your mother's voice there?
She who always called you by your
first name long after others had given
you the formal "Mister." You were
never anything but James, or John, or
George, or Thomas, or Mary, or Flor
ence to her. Will you not know your
child's voice? She of the bright ey
and ruddy cheek, and the quiet' step,
who came in from play and flung her
self into your lap, a very shower of
mirth and beauty? Why, the picture is
graven in your soul. It cannot wear
out. If that little one should stand on
the other side of some heavenly hill
and call to you, you would hear her
voice above the burst of heaven's great
orchestra. Know it! You could not
help but know It.
Now I bring you this glorious con
solation of future recognition. If you
could get this theory into your heart it
would lift a great many shadows that
are stretching across it. When I was
a lad I used to go out to the railroad
track and put my ear down on the
track, and I could hear the express
train rumbling miles away, and coming
on; and tc-day, my friends, if ne only
had faith enough we could put our ear
down to the grave of our dead, and
listen and hear in the 'distance the rum
bling on of the chariots of resurrection
O heaven! sweet heaven! You do not
spell heaven as you used to spell it,
h-e-a-v-e-n; heaven. But now when you
want to spell that word you place side
by side the faces of the loved ones
who are gone, and in that irradiation
of light and ove, and beauty and joy.
you spell it out as never before, in
songs and hallelujahs. Oh, ye whose
hearts are down under the sod of the
cemetery, chear up at the thought of
this reunion. Oh, how much you will
have to tell them when once you meet
Oh, how different it l. on earth from
the way it is In heaven when a Chris
tian dies! We say, "Close his eyes."
In heaven they say, "Give him a palm."
On earth we say. "Let him down in the
ground." In heaven they say, "Hoist
him on a throne." On earth It is, "Fare
well, farewell." In heaven it Is, "Wel
come, welcome." And so I see a Chris
tian bouI coming down to the riv2r of
death, and he steps into the river, and
the water comes up to the ankle. He
says, "Lord Jesus, Is this death?"
"No," says Christ, "this is not death."
And he wadea still deeper down into
the waters until the flood comes to the
knee, and he tays, "Lord Jesus, tell me.
tell me, is this death?" And Christ
says, "No, no, this is not death." . And
he wades still further down until the
wave comes to the girdle, and thai soul
says, "Lord Jesus, is this death?"
"No," says Christ, "this is not." And
deeper in wades the soul till the billow
strikes the lip, and the departing one
cries, "Lord Jesus, is this death?"
"No," says Christ, "this is not." But
when Christ had lifted this soul on a
throne of glory, and all the pomp and
joy of heaven came surging to its feet,
then Christ said, "This, oh transported
soul! this is death!"
The Principles of Jesus.
The principles of Jesus plainly are
that God is an Infinite Spirit; that He
is infinitely good; that the best quali
ties of humanity are but hints of His
excellence; that all souls are His chil
dren; that evil Is our most dreadful
foe; that God desires our rescue from It;,
and that Christ is the expression of
that desire, and his holy and un
changing love. T. S. King. . . ;
: , , , , ,-. , i '
, , More Word. -. . '
. We are not as careful with our words
as we ought to be.. We often wound
and are wounded by hasty or angryi
or rude words'; we say things not soon,
forgotten by the hearer,' and for which
we feel sorry ever afterward. Rev. Cv
F. Gregory.' ' ' " " '
Ahead of Time.
"And now, little children," said the
Sunday-school superintendent, "If youi
are good children, some day you may
wear a golden crown."
"Paw's got one on his tooth now,
chirped the smallest and newest boy,'
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