POLLY HASTINGS’ VALENTINE.

“Hal Prescott, you are a born artist, and no mistake! That’s old Polly Hastings complete, only a little more so. But really you are not going to send it?”

“Send it? Of course I shall send it. We boys have owed the amiable Miss Polly a grudge for this many a day, and now we are going to pay it. She shall have a chance at last to see herself as others see her,—cross, disagreeable old thing that she is. And Fred Raynor has written some comical rhymes to go with it.”

“Very good, Hal! You and Fred had better go into the valentine business. You might make your fortunes. But, after all, isn’t it most too bad to send that? Miss Polly isn’t to blame for her looks, you know.”

“Of course she isn’t. Who said she was?” replied Harry, with some asperity. “But she can help her actions. May be she has never ordered you off her door-step, or given you

Hail Columbia just because you happened to drop a peanut-shell or two on her sidewalk. And may be she never sent you sprawling in the gutter, just as you were about to make your best bow to a couple of young ladies.”

“No, I have no such grievances as that to complain of or avenge,” said Phil Graves, laughing. “But don’t be too hard on the old lady, Hal. She has her troubles, I dare say; and may be they don’t improve her disposition.”

St. Valentine’s day came, laden, as usual, with missives. Little Rose Prescott had been thoroughly happy all day. Several valentines had fallen to her share,—all beauties; and, as she sat in the fire-lighted parlor after tea, with her treasures in her hand, she wondered why every one should not agree with her that St. Valentine’s was the most delightful day of the whole year, Christmas scarcely excepted.

But Harry was heartily tired of hearing of valentines, and of thinking of them, too; for, after all, his own exploit was not so agreeable to reflect upon as he had thought it would be, and he could not help questioning

in his own mind if his behavior had been such as his conscience could approve. Therefore it was a relief to him when lights were ordered and his father expressed his readiness to respond to the children’s clamor for a story.

Rose begged for a valentine story; but Charlie wanted to hear how grandpa’s house burned down when papa was a little boy no larger than himself. So Mr. Prescott began:—

“I think it was in March that it happened, and a cold, windy night it was. Father had been suddenly called from home, and mother was just recovering from a long and severe illness. How well I remember father’s leave-taking that day. I wanted to go with him, as I usually did, for I was the youngest boy, and a favorite with him. But this time it was not to be thought of, and father was in too much haste to discuss the matter with me. ‘Amanda,’ said he, turning to an old colored woman who was mother’s special attendant, ‘take good care of your mistress, and don’t let these children disturb her. And, Polly,’ turning to the young, rosy-cheeked nurse-girl, ‘I leave the little folks

all in your hands, and shall feel sure that they are well cared for. Good-by all!’ And in a moment more father was half way to the gate.

“Somehow, as night came on, it was very lonely without father; and when we were all seated around the great open fireplace, listening to the wild wind outside, it did not seem as pleasant as usual. When eight o’clock came, we pleaded to sit up a little longer. But Polly knew father’s wishes in that matter too well to allow it, much as she might have wished it on her own account. Cousin Tim Arnold had come over to spend the night with George, who was usually my bedfellow; so it was decided to put me by myself in a small room at the head of the front stairs, commonly called the ‘hall bedroom.’

“How long I slept I am unable to say. It may have been moments, or it may have been hours; but I was suddenly awakened by a sound like the fall of some heavy body, accompanied with a scream, and, as I started up in bewilderment, my ears seemed filled with a rushing, crackling sound, quite unlike the roaring of the wind, and my room was so light that every object could be readily distinguished.

My first emotion was that of fear; but second thought convinced me that morning had come, and, springing from my bed, I commenced dressing, when suddenly a volume of smoke burst into the room, so strangling and bewildering me that I fell to the floor unconscious.”

“Was the house afire, papa?” asked Charley, eagerly.

“Yes, children, the house was on fire. It was so old and dry it seemed to burn like paper, and the wild wind, as it whistled and shrieked around the gables and among the tall chimneys, only helped on the mad fury of the flames, making the work of destruction more rapid and sure.”

“The half-crazed servant girls ran from room to room, in helpless terror, dragging the sleeping children from their beds and carrying them to a place of safety. And poor sick mother, in her helplessness, wrung her hands in agony and prayed to be left until every child had been safely removed from the burning house; and it was only when assured of their safety that she would consent to be borne away by the kind hands which had come to her relief.

“They’re all right, Miss Prescott; every one on ’em!” said a kind-hearted farmer, who had assisted in her removal. “Seven on ’em,—four boys and three girls. We counted ’em, my wife and I, both on us.”

“Yes, the children had been counted a dozen times, at least; but Polly, to make the matter sure beyond a doubt, proceeded to number them once more. ‘Tim Arnold!’ she fairly shrieked, ‘are you here? Then where is—oh! where is Jamie? Help! help!’ shrieked Polly, as she fairly flew back to the burning house. ‘Jamie is in the hall bedroom! Who will save him?’

“Two or three men started forward, but shrank back appalled, and, remembering their own wives and little ones at home, refused to brave the danger.

“Will no one go? Will no one save my Jamie?” cried the poor girl, wringing her hands. “O Jamie, Jamie, you were left to my care!” Then, seizing a blanket and throwing it about her own person, the heroic girl sprang past the hands that would have tried to stay her steps from what seemed certain destruction, rushed into the house, flew up the burning staircase, burst into the

room where I was lying, and in less time than it takes me to tell it, had taken my unconscious form in her arms, wrapped the blanket about me, and retraced her steps down the fiery path and out into the open air, just as the burning staircase fell behind us.

“Aid was not wanting to relieve her of my heavy weight, as she appeared, and snatch the burning covering from us both. But the exertion had been too much for her strength; and, burned by the fire and bewildered by the smoke, she had scarcely passed over the threshold when she fell headlong, striking with her face an iron scraper, which inflicted a frightful wound.”

“And was she very badly hurt, papa?” asked Rose, with her eyes full of tears.

“Yes, my dear, Polly was badly hurt and sadly disfigured. It was many months before she recovered from her wound, her burns, and the dreadful shock to her nervous system. Indeed, she never again seemed like the joyous, light-hearted girl that she was before.”

“I hope grandpa rewarded her as she deserved,” said Harry.

“It was hardly possible to do that,” replied Mr. Prescott, “as she had rendered us a service for which money could not pay. But father did what he could. He wished very much to give her a good education, as she was both anxious and quick to learn; but Providence saw fit to interfere. Her mother’s death, which occurred soon after our house was burned, left to her care an imbecile father and young brother; and no amount of persuasion could induce her to leave them to other hands, as she had promised her dying mother to care for both. So she gave up the best years of her life to her helpless parent, refusing at least two good offers of marriage on his account; and since his death she has had little chance for comfort or happiness, owing to the bad conduct of her brother, who has grown from a bright, beautiful, though sadly indulged little boy into a wicked profligate, who squanders her money and leads her a most wretched life. She says she cannot cast him off, as he was a legacy left her by her precious mother. And she feels, too, that perhaps her too-indulgent training has helped to make him what he is. So she bears with him, endures

his abuse, and pays his debts. Is it any wonder, children, if, under all these trials, her disposition has become soured, and all the sweetness seems to have been crushed out of her nature? Many people there are who think her morose and ill-tempered, and there are but few who know what a good, noble, unselfish heart Polly Hastings has under it all.”

“Polly Hastings!” exclaimed Harry, starting to his feet and coloring to the roots of his hair.

“Polly Hastings!” repeated Charley. “What! that cross old woman who keeps a little fancy store on D—— street?”

“The very same,” said Mr. Prescott. “And, now you know that to her your father owes his life, perhaps you will try to be kind to her and speak pleasantly to her now and then.”

“Oh! we will,” exclaimed Rose.

“Of course we will,” said Charley. “That is, if she’ll give us a chance.”

But Harry said nothing. With a heart full of grief, shame, and mortification, he sat with his bowed head resting upon his hand; and, later in the evening, when he entered

his father’s library and poured out a full confession of his wrong-doing, Mr. Prescott knew that Harry was thoroughly penitent and had been sufficiently punished.

“I am glad, Harry,” said his father, “that you are sorry for what you have done. But, my dear boy, I want you to realize that it is not only because Polly Hastings once saved your father’s life that you should regret your conduct; for, even if she were no more to us than any other person, you should always treat her with respect. As it is, you and Fred have not only insulted a woman, but have treated gray hairs with contempt.”

“I know it, father,” replied Harry, with the deepest humility, “and I’m sure I don’t know what we can do to atone.”

“Fortunately, Harry, I have it in my power to help you out of your trouble, to some extent,” said Mr. Prescott, smiling, and laying before Harry’s astonished eyes his own caricature of Miss Polly.

“Why, father!” exclaimed Harry. “How—where under the sun—”

“I discovered what you were about, my boy, in time to prevent this from being sent; and to-night, instead of being grieved and

angry over the foolish conduct of two thoughtless boys, Miss Polly is rejoicing over a new fifty-dollar greenback from her devoted valentine.”

“O father, how glad, how relieved I am! And how can I thank you enough?”

“By proving to me, Harry,” Mr. Prescott replied, “that you are trying to be more thoughtful for the feelings of others, and are resolved in future to conduct yourself in a manner befitting a true gentleman.”

My story is already too long, and I have only to add that, when Harry had made his friend acquainted with the fate of their valentine, Fred was quite as much pleased as himself, and on his paying a visit to Mr. Prescott, and expressing his penitence and thanks in terms the sincerity of which could not be doubted, that gentleman felt that both boys had received a valuable and lifelong lesson from Polly Hastings’ valentine.

TEN MINUTES’ DELAY.

ALL well-informed people are familiar with the sad account of the death of the young Prince Napoleon, who fell pierced by nineteen wounds at the hands of the Zulus, in South Africa, June 1, 1879.

Many will remember that Capt. Carey, in his published report, mentioned that after they had selected the camping-ground,—the object for which the squad of six had been detailed,—and had had coffee and rested, he suggested that they should remount and return to camp. But the young Prince, who commanded the squad, said,—

“No, let’s wait ten minutes.”

Just as they were preparing to remount, at the expiration of that ten minutes, a body of Zulus came on them, and all fled but the Prince, whose horse broke from him. After a desperate resistance, he fell, covered with wounds, and died “in the tall grass of the douga.”

I presume all do not know that this pleading

for ten minutes’ delay was a habit of the young Prince from early childhood.

A correspondent of a leading Paris journal interviewed the Empress as she was upon the eve of departure for the scene of the tragedy that had wrecked all her earthly hopes, and drew her into conversation on the subject of her son.

She talked freely during the interview, but with an evident anguish of spirit, which seemed only the more sad from her effort at control.

During this interview, while speaking of the childhood of her son, the Prince, she unconsciously revealed the trait in his character that had caused all this woe,—to her, wrecked hopes and a broken heart; to him, the probable loss of a throne, an earthly future, and his life.

After describing her as still lovely in her lonely grief, the writer from whom we quote said, “The Empress had now risen and stood, slightly trembling with emotion, when, stepping rapidly and gracefully across the room, she opened a cabinet, from which she took a pocket-book, and read therefrom on a leaf, ‘Going with Carey,’—the last words ever written by the Prince; then she added,—

“Of all that Capt. Carey has ever written in regard to my son, those fatal ten minutes alone, I hold to be true. It was ever his habit,” she continued, “to plead for ten minutes’ delay; so much so that I used to tell him they ought to call him “Monsieur Dix Minutes.” It was always ten minutes more to sleep in the morning; ten minutes more at night to sleep in his chair; and when too much overcome with sleep to speak, he would hold up his two little hands, the ten fingers representing the ten minutes more for which he pleaded.”

The habit of procrastination is a deadly foe to all prosperity in temporal or moral affairs. We should do every duty as soon as it can be done.

HARD TIMES CONQUERED.

ABOUT seventy years ago, a physician with a young family springing up around him, consulting his wife, as all good husbands find it prudent to do, bought a large farm in one of our New England States, where every farmer truly earns his living by the sweat of his brow. Both felt that nowhere could their children be trained to industry and frugality so thoroughly as on a good farm.

The doctor was obliged to “run in debt” for this property, and he gave a mortgage on the place. The payments were to be made quarterly, and promptly, or the whole would be forfeited and revert to the original owner. In those days physicians were not likely to become millionaires, and though Dr. Mason’s practice was large, the pay was small and not always sure. He therefore looked to the farm for the means to release him from the bondage of debt; and the children, even to the youngest, were taught to labor for, and

look forward eagerly to, the time “when we have paid for the farm!”

The creditor was the doctor’s father-in-law, through his first wife, and while the good old gentleman lived, if by any mishap or over-press of business the quarterly payment had been delayed, it would have been kindly excused. But for the ten or fifteen years that he lived after the sale of the farm, there had not been one delay in payment, though now and then there would come a time, when it was very hard to secure the needed sum in time, for even in the olden days “hard times” were often experienced, to the terror of our hard-working New England farmers. But little by little, the heavy debt was diminishing, and the doctor’s family were looking forward hopefully to the year of jubilee, when they could sit under their own vine and fig-tree with none to molest and make them afraid.

At this period the father-in-law died. He had but two children,—daughters. The younger, the doctor’s wife, died childless. The elder married a hard, close, scheming man who lost no opportunity of remarking that he would, no doubt, soon come in possession

of Dr. Mason’s farm, as the latter, with his large family, must fail by-and-by.

The financial troubles which the war of 1812 had caused, as all wars are sure to do, were not yet adjusted. Money was scarce, and payments very difficult. Ten children now filled the old house with merriment and gladness; but they were to be clothed and educated.

Let us see how successfully they had been taught to make their high spirits and resolute wills cheerful auxiliaries in lifting the burden, which, since their grandfather’s death, was pressing upon their parents.

At the time of which we write, among other crops, rye was extensively raised. It was used for food among the farmers quite as much as wheat, and was also valuable for other purposes. When full-grown, but still in the milk, large quantities were cut to be used for “braiding.” The heads were used for “fodder;” the stalks, after being soaked in strong hot soap-suds, were spread on the grass for the sun to whiten. When sufficiently bleached and ready for use, they were cut at each joint, and the husk stripped off, and the straw thus prepared was then tied in pound bundles for sale.

Bonnets, then, meant something more than a small bit of silk or velvet with a flower or feather attached, and the “straw braid” for making them was in great demand. Boys and girls were alike taught to braid, and the long winter evenings were not spent idly. Dr. Mason raised large crops of rye, and each child, almost as soon as he could walk, was taught to braid, and was soon able to do much by it toward clothing himself. At six years of age a dollar a week was easily earned; at eight, three dollars; and in something of that proportion up to the eldest.

Does any one think that such a life, with such an object in view, was hard or cruel? Never was there a greater mistake. It was of great value to those young spirits. They had something real, that they could understand, to labor for. There was life and courage and true heroism in it. It was an education—with here and there, to be sure, some rough places to pass over—which was worth more to them than all the money millionaires bequeath their sons and daughters; an education which prepared them in afterlife to be courageous and self-helpful.

It is this kind of training that has made

New England’s sons and daughters strong and self-reliant, and the lack of it which makes these hard times such a horror that we hear of many who seek death by their own hands as preferable to the struggle for better times.

In the long winter evenings, when the labor of the day was over, the children home from school, and the “chores” all finished, the candles were lighted and the evening work began. The mother in her corner was busy making and mending for her large family. The doctor, if not with the sick, read and studied opposite her. The children gathered around the long table in the middle of the room, where lay the school-books and straw previously prepared for braiding, while the old fire-place, heaped with blazing logs of hickory, oak, and fragrant birch, made the room warm and cheerful. Here, with their books before them and fastened open to the next day’s lessons, the children with nimble fingers plaited the straw and studied at the same time. For children taught to be industrious, usually carry into the school-room the principles thus developed, and are ambitious to keep as near the head of the class as possible.

Such a family as this was well equipped to meet and conquer adversity. For several days Dr. Mason had been unusually grave and silent. All noticed it, but no remarks were made until evening, when he came to supper, so unmistakably worried and despondent that his wife inquired if he were not well.

“Yes, well enough. But, Lucy, I have so far been unable to collect money for our quarterly payment. So much is due me that I had no fears but that enough would be promptly paid to save me any trouble.”

“How much is lacking?”

“Not quite a hundred dollars; but it might as well be thousands for any chance I now see of getting it in season. There is now so much sickness about, that, as you know, I have had no rest, and little time to collect money. If not ready before midnight tomorrow, we are ruined. I have kept it from you as long as I dared, still hoping that those who ought to pay me would do so.”

“Have you told them how very important it is that you should have the money?”

“No; I did not wish to speak of it. Mr. H. is watching greedily for a ‘slip,’ and we

need expect no mercy at his hands. Under our hard labor and good care, this farm has risen greatly in value—too much so for him to spare us an hour, if he can once get hold of it. I am about discouraged. It is the darkest time we have seen yet. But I must be off, and will probably be kept out all night. To think there are not forty-eight hours between us and ruin! And my hands are so tied by several severe cases, that I may not find one hour to make up the little that is needed.”

For a few minutes after the doctor left, the children stood silent and sad, watching their mother. At last she said,—

“Children, we can help father through this, and save our home, if you are willing to submit to some little self-denial. No; I should have said to great self-denial. Each of you has worked diligently to buy new garments for winter. You need them and deserve them, and I should be happy and proud to see you all neat and comfortable. But to help father, are you willing to let me try to clean, mend, or make over your old clothes, and use what you have earned to help brighten this dark day? The braid you have on hand, and what is now due at the store, is

all your own, or to be expended for your own clothes, and if each one of you is not perfectly willing, I don’t wish you to give it up.”

It was a beautiful sight to see those eager faces watching their mother, ready to answer the moment she had finished; for in the olden time children were taught that it was disrespectful to interrupt any one when speaking, even when, as in this case, it was difficult to keep silent. But the reply, when given, was prompt, enthusiastic, as she had confidently looked for it.

“Thanks, dear children! Now, then, hasten. First bring me all your braid, and let us see how much it will come to.”

The braid, in ten-yard rolls, was brought, and its value estimated.

“With that which is now due us at the store, we have nearly sixty dollars! Well done, for all these little fingers! But now we must devise a way to make up the remainder. Your father spoke last night of a large quantity of straw, which, if cut, would bring in something. He will be away all night. If you work well, we can cut many pounds before midnight. Now, girls, help

me wash the dishes, while your brothers bring, before dark, the straw we can cut tonight.”

By the time the candles were lighted, all was ready to begin.

The younger children were excused at their usual bedtime, but the others worked with their mother till the tall clock in the corner struck one. Then all retired for a few hours’ rest.

Dr. Mason returned home in season for breakfast, and his wife inquired if the eldest son could drive her over to the neighboring town to dispose of some braid for the children. He replied that he must be gone again all day, and neither son nor team could well be spared from important work at home. But a strange thing followed this implied refusal. Mrs. Mason, who never allowed her plans or wishes to interfere with her husband’s, now repeated her request, and urged it till he yielded, apparently from sheer surprise that his wife could be so persistent.

The doctor went his usual round, and the mother and her son departed on their mysterious errand. Their business accomplished, they returned well satisfied and ready for supper when the father arrived.

A deeper gloom was on his face when he entered; but no word was spoken till all were seated at the table. Then in a slightly agitated voice his wife inquired,—

“Have you been successful in obtaining the money?”

He shook his head, but remained silent. Each young quivering face was turned first toward him, then with earnest, questioning glance to the mother.

“Do not be discouraged, dear, even at this late hour.”

“Are you wild, Lucy? There are but six hours between us and ruin. Can you talk of hope now? I have none.”

With a warning gesture to the children, she rose, stepped to her husband’s chair, and passing her arm round his neck, said, gently,—

“Yet still hope on, my husband; God will not forsake us.”

He moved impatiently from under her arm; but as he did so, she dropped a roll into his bosom and turned toward her chair.

“Lucy! Lucy! what is this? Where did you get it?”

All was wild excitement. Each child laughed, sobbing, shouting, but one glance

from that strong but gentle mother quelled the confusion, and she replied,—

“It is our children’s offering, and sufficient to make up the needed sum. I persisted in going away this morning against your wish, because I saw no other escape. We cut the straw last night—many willing hands made quick work; I sold it, and their braid added to it, with what was already due them, completed the sum.”

Those who witnessed that scene will never forget it; Dr. Mason with his arm around his wife, and both in tears, calling her all happy names; the children clinging about their parents, so joyful that home was saved and they had helped to save it.

“Put Charlie into the wagon, quick. If he fails me not, the six miles between here and M—— will be the shortest I ever rode. I shall be home before bedtime to thank you all. I cannot now. I hope we shall never come so near ruin again.”

And they never did. In two years the last dollar was paid, and then Dr. Mason resolved he would never again owe any one a cent. He kept his resolution.

LABOR.

Labor is life! ’T is the still water falleth; Idleness ever despaireth, bewaileth; Keep the watch wound, or the dark rust assaileth; Flowers droop and die in the stillness of noon. Labor is glory! the flying cloud lightens, Only the waving wing changes and brightens, Idle hearts only the dark future frightens, Play the sweet keys, wouldst thou keep them in tune!

Labor is health! Lo, the husbandman reaping, How through his veins goes the life-current leaping! How his strong arm in its stalwart pride sweeping, True as a sunbeam the swift sickle guides! Labor is wealth,—in the sea the pearl groweth; Rich the queen’s robe from the frail cocoon floweth; From the small acorn the strong forest bloweth; Temple and statue the marble block hides.

Droop not, though shame, sin, and anguish are round thee! Bravely fling off the cold chain that hath bound thee! Look to the pure Heaven smiling beyond thee! Rest not content in thy darkness,—a clod! Work for some good, be it ever so slowly! Cherish some flower, be it ever so lowly! Labor, all labor is noble and holy; Let thy great deed be thy prayer to thy God.

A MOUNTAIN PRAYER-MEETING.

“Will you go to meeting with me this afternoon, Mabel? Come; this is your last day here; do go once before you leave the White Mountains.”

“What do you do in ‘meeting’?” asked the gay, beautiful, “High Church” New York belle, with just a shade of contemptuous inflection in her voice.

“Well,—there will be no sermon; there never is in the afternoon. The good minister sits in the aisle, in front of the pulpit, and invites any one he likes to make a prayer. Any other one, who feels the need of it, may request that he or she be mentioned personally in the petition; and those who wish it may relate their experience.”

“How very funny! All the old women ‘speakin’ in meetin,’ and scaring themselves dreadfully. I’ll go. I dare say I shall have a good laugh, if I do n’t fall asleep.”

So we walked through the long, hilly street of Bethlehem, in the pleasant hour be- (200)

fore sunset, in the sweet, warm, hazy air of early autumn. The glory of the Lord shone round about us; for all the mountains were burnished, splendid, gorgeous, in purple and crimson and gold. Mabel’s deep gray eyes grew large and luminous as her artist-soul drank in the ineffable beauty.

The building was so crowded with the villagers and many visitors that it was with difficulty we obtained seats, apart from each other. Mabel found a place next to a young, sweet-faced country woman, and looked, with her flower-like face and French costume, like some rare exotic by the side of a humble mountain daisy.

The minister opened the services with a few fervent, simple words, and then said, “Brother ——, will you lead in prayer?”

A plain old country farmer knelt in the aisle before us. His prayer—sincere, and, I doubt not, as acceptable, because sincere, as if it had been offered in polished language—made Mabel shake with laughter.

He rose, and there was utter silence for a moment. Then a high, sweet woman’s voice, far in front of us, sang out, clear as a bell,—

“Sweet hour of prayer! sweet hour of prayer! That calls me from a world of care, And bids me at my Father’s throne Make all my wants and wishes known.”

The congregation joined in; only one verse was sung, and again the strange, solemn silence fell upon us.

It was broken by the sudden rising of a lank, awkward boy, who uttered a few words in a frightened nasal whine.

This time Mabel was convulsed with laughter; but the sweet singer, who saw in this utterance only the contrite soul of the speaker, burst forth triumphantly with—

“Oh, gift of gifts! oh, grace of faith! My God, how can it be That thou, who hast discerning love, Shouldst give that gift to me?”

Only one verse, as before. Then the pure notes, high above all the other voices, died away, and a strange-looking woman arose.

“I haven’t any gift of language,” said she, “but I want to give in my testimony. I’ve always been a wicked woman; I’ve always gone against my conscience. I’ve made my folks at home miserable for many a long year; and that’s the reason God poured

trouble after trouble down on me, till I was about to take my own life, when some one—it must have been one of God’s angels—went singing through the woods. Shall I ever forget the words?—

“With tearful eyes I look around; Life seems a dark and stormy sea;—”

She stopped, her voice breaking into a hoarse sob, when the other sweet voice immediately went on—

“Yet, mid the gloom, I hear a sound,— A heavenly whisper,—‘Come to me.’

“Oh, voice of mercy! voice of love! In conflict, grief, and agony, Support me, cheer me from above! And gently whisper—‘Come to me.’”

I looked at Mabel. She was not laughing. A strange, awed expression rested upon her features; her head was bowed down as the sweet-faced woman at her side rose, and, turning to the last speaker, said, in a low, gentle voice,—

“My sister, we all thank our Heavenly Father that he put his strong arm of protection about you while it was yet time; and since you have joined with us in profession

of your faith, there has been no one more earnest in those good works without which faith is nothing.”

Then reverently kneeling, she prayed that God would strengthen her dear sister, and give them all love and charity, one for another, and his peace, which passeth all understanding.

Out rang the sweet voice,—

“Haste thee on, from grace to glory, Armed by faith, and winged by prayer! Heaven’s eternal day’s before thee, God’s own hand shall guide thee there.”

Mabel was now silently crying, and big tears were blinding my eyes, when a grand old man rose from his seat. Bent and feeble now, I could see that he had once been tall and stately, looking as the Puritan fathers must have looked when they first stepped upon “the stern and rock-bound coast” at Plymouth. Fine, clean-cut features, and eyes still blue and piercing remained, but his voice trembled painfully as he said,— “I am ninety-four years old, and most of those I love have gone to the graveyard before me; I have lived all these years in Bethlehem, and, boy and man, have tried to

serve the Lord; and I owe my blessed hope in my Saviour to the teaching and example of my good and pious mother.” Then, with aged, trembling hands uplifted, he prayed that all the children present might be brought up in the nurture and admonition of the Lord.

Near us was a handsome, well-dressed man, past middle age, who had listened with absorbed attention to all that had been said, and who now seemed strangely agitated. In a moment he arose, and then he spoke.

“I presume that no one here remembers a poor boy who nearly fifty years ago left this place to seek his fortune. Fatherless, motherless, with no claim upon any one here, I wandered away with a heavy heart to earn my bread. Many a time have I been exhausted, discouraged, almost hopeless; but my mother had taught me to pray—her dying gift to me was her own Bible. It has gone round the world with me, and God has never forsaken me. I have long been a rich man, and I have come once more to these grand hills—my childhood’s home—to testify my gratitude to my Maker for all his goodness. I never intended to speak as I am now doing;

but after what I have heard and witnessed, I should be most ungrateful if I did not give my testimony and belief in the abounding love and mercy of God. O friends! take me back! Let me be one with you in this most sweet and touching service, and when I leave you, pray that I may never be ungrateful for the earthly blessings he has heaped upon me, and for the far more priceless gift of his Son, Jesus Christ.”

Every one had listened to the stranger in deep silence. Every heart had thrilled responsive to his words. It seemed as if the very breath of Heaven had entered into the little church, cleansing and purifying each soul present, and filling it with inexpressible devotion, when, like a soft, trembling wave, the pure young voice came floating down the aisles, and we heard the solemn acknowledgment,—

“A charge to keep I have, A God to glorify; A precious, blood-bought soul to save, And fit it for the sky.”

She sang alone; a feeling too deep for utterance had prevented the rest from joining in, and many heads were bent in silent prayer and thanksgiving.

But oh! what do I see? Pale as death, her eyes dilated, her whole frame quivering like an aspen, Mabel arose and essayed to speak. The muscles of her mouth refused to obey her will, but with a painful effort she faltered in low, broken tones, “Pray for me,” and sank down upon her knees.

It was the voice of God that spoke in those three little words, “Pray for me,” uttered so low, yet distinctly heard in every part of the church. Joyful tears were streaming down many women’s faces, as for the first time the singer’s voice trembled, broke, and at last sobbed through the humble entreaty,—

“Just as I am—without one plea, But that thy blood was shed for me, And that thou bid’st me come to thee, O Lamb of God, I come.”

As she finished, a young minister who was living in the same house with us, and whose life had been nearly sacrificed in missionary labors, bowed in prayer. The radiance of Heaven was upon his face, and God spoke through him to the awakened soul of Mabel in a way I had never heard before. The words poured out in an inspired flood, carrying her soul resistless upon its mighty waves

to repentance, faith, prayer, praise, love, joy, peace, and at last Heaven!

With a solemn benediction the services were ended; and when we had come out, it seemed as if the very heavens were rejoicing over the tidings which had gone up of the soul that day redeemed. All that was gorgeous and beautiful in color had taken possession of the sky. The clouds, like great gold and crimson banners, were moving high over our heads, furling and unfurling, as if carried by exultant angels, marching and singing their triumphant allelujahs.

And Mabel, still white as an Easter lily, but with her deep gray eyes full of a new happiness, a steadfast resolution to live henceforth for Christ, walked by my side, watching the great glory of the heavens, with her arm lovingly entwined in mine. We did not speak; we had no need, for our thoughts were in perfect accord. I had witnessed the wonderful mystery of her instantaneous “change of heart;” I knew it was well with her.

Beautiful, gay, fashionable, the pet of society, I knew her also to be a staunch upholder of all that was noble, good, and pure,

and I felt a thorough conviction that she had indeed given herself up body and soul to Him who had chosen to send his Holy Spirit into her heart, as she was going out of the little village which bore the blessed name of Bethlehem.

ONLY A WORD.

Only a word! Yet it bore on its holy breath A message that God had given To kindly warn from the ways of death, And a soul was led to Heaven.

Only a word! Yet there lay in its heart, enshrined Like the germ in a tiny seed, A thought that fell in an earnest mind, And grew to a noble deed.

Only a word! The whispered “Amen” of a prayer; But it flew, like a swift-winged dove, From the stormy depths of a soul’s despair To the Father’s heart of love.

Only a word! Oh, choose it wisely, weigh it well; Send it forth with love and faith; It may be, the message one word can tell Will rescue a soul from death.

CORRECT SPEECH.

NOTHING bespeaks a true lady or gentleman more than the use of correct language, pure, clean speech.

Cultivate, my young friends, good English in every-day conversation. It is strange how easily and almost unconsciously one slides into a careless, slipshod way of talking, even when the rules of grammar are quite familiar. It is not uncommon to find people learned in all the rules of syntax who apply them to the art of writing, yet habitually talk incorrectly.

Early culture, and association with refined persons, are quite essential to give purity to speech; but if one has unfortunately been deprived of these, he should continually watch his words till he gets in the habit of using correct English; for nothing so unmistakably marks one with vulgarity, no matter how elegant is the outside covering, as shabby, low-born speech.

The young people belonging to several families in a certain neighborhood entered into an agreement to pay a small forfeit every

time any of them made use of certain vulgarisms in speech that had become a habit with them. Old and young, large and small, soon became interested and entered into the compact. All had fallen into the habit, for false syntax is contagious, and spreads through whole communities when it once breaks out, and one of its worst phases is that people become affected by it without knowing it.

The treasury, the contents of which, by the way, was given to charitable purposes, for a time was pretty full. Each one was a self-appointed monitor. The plan caused considerable amusement, but what is better, completely cured the bad habit. I doubt if in that circle the words “ain’t,” or “wont,” or “have got,” or “done” for “did,” are ever heard. And their conversation is seldom embellished with “you know,” “now a,” “I tell you what,” “of course,” and the like, or with high sounding superlatives where only the moderate positives have any meaning.

I would recommend to all my young friends who are daily associating together, the formation of such a club as I have been describing. It is a marvelous corrector of false syntax, and the rules might extend to other bad habits, and so be constituted a reform club.

Continue reading: THE MAJOR’S CIGAR.