"Oh fie! How old and strait-laced you are for a young man; why Dr.

Henry often went and looked on, and his daughter danced, and people

liked him all the better for it. You will be immensely unpopular if

you pursue that course. Don't you think," she continued, encouraged

by his silence, "that it savours a little of bigotry and egotism to

set one's self up to condemn an amusement that many other Christians

approve? What is your ground of objection? One would suppose that you

had received a direct revelation on the subject."

"I have," he said, and his clear eyes looked full into hers,

"directly from the Master himself. Don't you know that a person who

is absorbed in Christian work, a consecrated Christian, is not

absorbed in all these amusements, and one who is, has no room in his

heart for Christ. There is a law of Natural Philosophy, you know,

which says that 'Two bodies cannot occupy the same place at the same

time', and there is a somewhat similar law in regard to a soul,

stated by the Lord himself. 'Ye cannot serve two masters.' It is the

world or Christ with every soul, and I have chosen Christ."

"I know this much," she said, coldly, "that fanatics are the most

intolerable of all people. I have danced all my life, and since I

became a church-member, and never had it hinted to me before that I

was not a Christian because I loved it. You need not go; John can

take me and call for me, and I will make excuses for you."

"My dear wife! would you do that? Surely you did not yourself intend

to dance; the most liberal would be shocked, I fancy, were a

minister's wife to dance."

"And why? I am not the minister. I recognise no restraints that do

not apply as well to every Christian woman. You told me yourself that

Mrs. Graham is an excellent lady; she is a member of your church, and

dances, I am told. Why should not one professor of religion have the

same privileges as another?"

"Vida," he said, in a tone of mingled pain and tenderness, "it is

only a short time since we were pronounced 'no more twain hut one;'

you said then the thought made you glad. How can you separate your

interests from mine now? Will you do what would dishonour my calling

were I to do it? The world counts us one, your action is mine, and

just or unjust, they do not accord to you the right to wade quite so

far into the sea of worldly pleasures as they themselves feel

privileged to do. They would point the finger of ridicule at both of

us, and charge us with inconsistency. We will not stop to argue the

right and wrong of the subject now, supposing your conscience does

not shut you out from the dance, let worldly prudence and a desire to

keep our names from common gossip, influence you, I pray you, if

indeed my wishes and opinion are of no value."

But the young wife was in no frame for recollecting tender vows, nor

listening to reason. She threw off his arm with an impatient gesture,

and glancing at her watch, said:--

"I have not only accepted an invitation to this party, but promised

to dance. It is getting late and I must go."

Mr. Eldred controlled his agitation by a mighty effort, and in a low,

calm tone said:--

"Then I must save you from disgracing us both. I insist, I _command_

you not to go."

Had he struck her, she would not have been more astonished. She stood

as if stunned for a moment; then with a stately air, she swept by him

and ascended the stairs to her room. What was his consternation, as

he stood gazing out into the moonlight, presently to see her pass

down the walk, step into the carriage and drive away!

Turning from the window, he paced the floor with anguish keen as

though she had gone from him for ever. What obstinacy, what

unreasoning wilfulness--and what would come of it? He spent the long

night brooding over his great sorrow, the root of which was the fear

that his dear wife did not belong to Christ, for beloved her through

all her unloveliness. "Husbands, love your wives even as Christ loved

the church." His love had something in it of the divine pity and

patience that our blessed Lord feels for his sinning, stumbling, and

exasperating children.

Mrs. Eldred was not that type of womankind who spent their wrath in

tears and reproaches. When she was angry, she was unapproachably so,

as frigid as an iceberg. The crisis had come. Her husband had dared

to command.

The next morning there was not the turn of an eyelid that could be

construed into penitence. A brawling woman is but little less

endurable than a perfectly silent one. You may almost as well "flee

to the house-top" from one as the other. What few words were spoken

by Mr. Eldred at the breakfast table received no replies.

In the course of the forenoon he went to fulfil an engagement a few

miles in the country, where he was detained till late in the day. He

sat in his study in the gathering twilight longing for, but not

expecting, a word from his wife of contrition and conciliation. He

was summoned to tea, but no wife appeared. After a little he went in

search of her. She was not in the house. It was growing dark. He was

perplexed and anxious. Again he went to their room, hoping to find

some explanation of the strange absence. On the mantel lay a note

addressed to him. As he read he gazed about to assure himself that it

was not a horrible dream, half expecting his wife to gleefully spring

into his arms from some hiding-place; but all was silent save his own

moans of pain.

Vida had gone! Had "fled to her mother for protection from a tyrant."

So the letter ran; it was in her own graceful hand; her name was

affixed. It was no cruel joke. She said, moreover, that it was

evident that their tastes were not congenial; it was out of the

question for her to be tied down to the sort of life he expected of

her; that she had borne reflections on her conduct that she had not

tolerated from any other being! Tyranny was of all things most

hateful to her; the climax was now reached when he ventured "_to

command_."

"She recognised no such right. She never would; she would not be

called to account every time she stepped over a forbidden imaginary

line; it was plain they had been mistaken in each other, and

disappointed; they did not add to each other's happiness, as

appeared from the gloom enveloping him day and night; the last months

were months of discord; she felt neglected; he was poring over books

or seeking other society in an interminable round of calls; plainly

what he needed in a wife was a sort of co-pastor; it was not too late

to secure such a person, since the law granted divorce for wilful

desertion."

With this last sentence the letter closed. Not a word betrayed the

faintest regret at severing so solemn a bond. He searched it over and

over to see if in some corner he could not find one tender word for

him, a word that would reveal down deep in her heart the light of her

great love for him, even such love as he had for her--a faint glimmer

through the clouds of anger and recrimination. It was not there, not

one syllable to show that the heart of the writer had not turned to

ice. Yes, there was another sentence, more cruel and hopeless still:

"Do not try to change my resolution, as though it were made in a pet;

it is final--_unalterable_."

It could not be true. He looked wildly about as if to have the

terrible truth dispelled. He opened her closet door and her bureau

drawers, but the pretty, festive robes were all gone; the dainty

garments were not in their places. A little pair of half-worn

slippers, and the blue ribbon that had tied her hair were all he

found. He seized them convulsively, as a part of Vida when she was

sweet and simple--as she could be.

He sat for long hours with the letter in his hand, as one who holds

his death-warrant. Then falling upon his face, he cried to his

Helper. And He who is of great pity and tender mercies heard, and

drew nigh in the darkness and comforted him, even "as one whom his

mother comforteth," and when the morning dawned he arose and took up

the burden of life again, where he was, ere Vida Irving stole into

his heart. No, not that, it could never be the same again. When the

lightning sends his lurid bolt down a noble tree, it may not wave

green and fair as once; there will be dead branches and the gnarled

seam to tell the story that

"Fire hath scathed the forest oak."

The grave man who went out into life again carried the marks of the

conflict in sad eyes and pale cheeks. Not the least of this great

trial was to meet and answer the looks and questions of the curious.

For the present he could truthfully say:

"Mrs. Eldred has unexpectedly gone to her mother."

Meanwhile he resigned his charge, much to the sorrow and dismay of

all. He disposed of all the elegant furnishings of the parsonage, and

with haste left the spot that had been the scene of an exquisite

torture. No defined plans were before him, save to get far away from

any who could have had the least knowledge of him previously. No

fugitive from justice ever felt more nervous haste. He pushed on,

never pausing till he reached the very verge of civilisation in the

far south-west. Not that he would be a hermit or misanthrope, but

perchance find a people destitute of the gospel. He would bring it to

them. He must preach Christ till death. This should be his joy and

comfort; henceforth no other love should come between his soul and

his dear Master.

And he found his work, as if an unerring path had been marked out

straight to the little log church in the woods.

While Vida sat in a lofty temple of arches and massive pillars, the

sunlight toned to the appropriate dimness, as it stole through the

stained windows, the same hour her husband stood in the log church of

the wilderness, its arches and pillars outside--the tall old trees

locking arms overhead. Nature softened the fierce rays in this temple

as well, for they filtered through thick green boughs, and flecks of

light fell here and there, a stray one resting halo-like upon the

minister's head, transfiguring him in the eyes of the hungry souls

whose upturned faces drank in the words of life.

This unlearned, simple people with whom he had cast his lot, had

their faults, but to the refreshment of his soul, they had no card or

dancing parties, theatre or opera to steal the soul from Christ after

the manner of more cultured Christians. The church was the apple of

their eye. They made sacrifices for it, and travelled weary miles in

the worst of weather, rather than lose a "meeting."

The young gifted pastor of St. Paul's Church was never more

appreciated than now by these hardworking, warm-hearted pioneers. It

was their daily wonder and thanksgiving that such a man should ever

have been sent to them. Nothing that they could do for him was too

much, and their loving devotion was like balm to his weary soul. His

people were scattered for miles away, but the pastoral calls were as

faithfully made as when they were comprehended within the limits of a

few squares. The mild winter climate of that region was like one long

autumn of the Eastern States. Mounted on his faithful pony, he spent

a large part of every day riding over the prairies. The blue skies

and the bright sunshine were tonics to the heart as well as to the

body. Sometimes his route lay for miles through the woods, where

perfect solitude reigned but for the chatter of birds that circled

about him. In these long rides his heart went back over the past,

reviving the memory of those first precious days with Vida. They

seemed far away, and their recollection, like the perfume of wilted

flowers plucked from the grave of a dear one. If he could not have

prayed for her then, hourly, his heart would have broken.

Mrs. Irving changed her residence, putting many hundred miles between

her new and the old home, so that Vida might begin life anew, as she

phrased it, without embarrassment. In a large hotel in the great

city, with seaside and mountain trips, parties and operas was much

more to Vida's taste than dull life in a quiet parsonage, and she

expected to play the role of a pastor's wife.

With her mother as chaperon she led a gay life, going, coming,

revelling at will in her freedom. As before her marriage, she

attracted much attention. Admired and courted, suitors innumerable

paid her homage. But a positive nature and strong will asserted

themselves here. Only such attentions as befitted a wife to receive

were tolerated. She knew the law did not count her free; and if she

had analyzed her secret heart, there was no true reason why she cared

to be free. No face she met had power to quicken her pulses or

extract from her a second thought. The inner heart had long ago been

pre-empted, but the blind wilful creature knew it not. The face most

often seen in her dreams; the voice that whispered in her ear; the

sad dark eyes that seemed to follow her reproachfully, belonged to

none of the gay gallants about her. Her previous history being

unknown she was a problem in that circle.

There came a change. Mrs. Irving's health began to fail. The eminent

physicians far and near were consulted in vain; and as the symptoms

became more denned and alarming, Vida could not shut her eyes to the

fact that her mother was in a most critical state. She was a devoted

daughter, though the weeds of selfishness, fostered by the mother's

hand, at times almost overtopped filial affection. Now she shut

herself in from society and devoted herself to her mother with

unremitting care. Every whim of the invalid was gratified.

One day, after weary months of suffering, she said: "O Vida dear, I

would pray to die, if I were not afraid."

"Why afraid, mother? I'm sure you've been a member of a church these

many years, and a faithful attendant on its services, and you have

been kind to the poor and such a dear mother," said Vida, caressing

her. "I don't think you need be afraid."

"O child, that will not stand in the great day. Don't mention

anything I've done or been, I beg you," moaned the poor mother. "I've

been nothing but a miserable worldling. Now I'm almost through with

it all, and I've no peace or comfort. It's all dark, dark. O what

shall I do?"

"Let me send for Dr. Hines," said Vida.

"O I cannot talk to him. He's a stranger; and I'm so weak. What must

I do, O what?"

Vida had been a member of the same church. But now she sat wrapped in

gloom, feeling powerless to help, yet longing to comfort her dying

mother. In the midst of her sad thoughts as she sat watching, while

gentle slumber had stolen for a moment over the mother, she

remembered the words of a text she had heard her husband preach from,

"What must I do to be saved?" The sermon was all gone.

"If it asks that question in the Bible, it must answer it," she

thought. So finding a Bible, she sat down to search for the old

answer to the old question.

"Reading the Bible, dear?" said her mother, opening her eyes.

"Oh, mother, mother, I've found the answer."

The plain short direction was read; the mother repeated it over

feebly. "Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, and thou shalt be saved."

"Read about Him, O do," and she seemed to summon soul and body to

listen, as Vida, led doubtless by the Spirit, read here and there of

Him who died for us. Day after day the reading went on; and while the

mother slept, the daughter pondered the wonderful words she had read;

preached to her for years, apprehended by her only just now. Her

heart was filled with horror and fear at her treatment of such a

Saviour; at her daring to number herself among his people; then that

heart melted as she read of his love and pity, and casting away her

robe of self-righteousness for the first time in her life, she knelt

before Him a heart-broken, contrite sinner. He took the burden from

her heart and gave her "peace."

While she still bowed at the bedside, praying her whispered prayer

that her dear mother might "see Jesus," that mother put out her thin

hand and laid it on the golden head, murmuring:

"Dear daughter, I believe in the Lord Jesus Christ; He has forgiven

me. It is all peace, peace. Thank Him."

And Vida's clear, low tones of thanksgiving came to her dying mother

sweet as the voice of angels, whose song soon burst upon her ear.

How clear an "evidence of Christianity" is this. A soul exchanging

pride, haughtiness, and rebellion for humility and submission. Vida,

meekly bowing to the storm that burst over her head, and filled with

joy and peace that had not been hers in the brightest hour of

worldly pleasure. It was not so hard, with this new-born love and

trust, to see the grave close over that dear mother. It was gilded

with the light of that day when "we shall rise again."

In these hours of bereavement Vida's heart went out with a longing

cry for her husband. The love that she had stifled and called dead

was there, deeper and purer. Now that she had been brought by this

divine mystery unto full sympathy with him, he was the one soul on

earth whose love she craved.

Perverse human heart! Here she was, no one to control her actions,

possessed of wealth, youth, beauty, freedom to journey to other

lands, and revel in the grand and beautiful of nature and art, yet

the one only thing she desired, or that would satisfy, was to creep

back into the niche she had filled in that other heart, that large,

pure soul that she had thrust from her in her wicked folly and

blindness. Now she would devote her life to searching for him, if

indeed he were still living, and the doubt brought a keen pang; or

had he, too, thrust her out and barred the door, so that she might

never more enter? Or--worse than death--had he given the place to

another, as she bade him do? It was a weary search, with this

terrible uncertainty shrouding it. She advertised in mystical

language, so none but he could comprehend it. She examined the church

records of the denomination with which he was connected, but found no

clue there.

She attended conventions where large companies of ministers were in

session, and eagerly looked them over, hoping and praying that her

eyes might fall on that one that her heart asked for. It was growing

exciting and absorbing, this strange search. She frequently visited

towns where a popular preacher or lecturer was announced, and made

one of the vast throng that passed about him; then, taking a

favourable position, rapidly scanned the upturned faces, wondering,

meanwhile, what that strange, subtle something is, by which we

recognise each other; that unerring consciousness, so that among

ten thousand faces, could we view them one by one, we know at a

glance that the one we seek is not there; we do not stop, and doubt,

and compare--we know.

She humbled herself to the very dust, and wrote letters far and near

to his ministerial friends, that brought only sorrowful replies. And

now there came a remembrance that he had often spoken of the far west

as a wide and promising field for labour; that some time he should

like to go there and build up a church. He might have gone there now.

So, with this forlorn hope, she started westward; spending the summer

journeying, stopping over the Sabbath at straggling villages, and

visiting different churches. Wearied out at length, she recalled the

fact that an uncle had removed, with his family, to the south-west,

several years before.

She searched out their whereabouts and hastened thither, intending to

spend but a brief season. But yielding to their entreaties she

remained through the autumn. It was now drawing near to Christmas,

and still she lingered. She was growing hopeless, and that pleasant

home filled with boys and girls was a diversion from her grief.

"Do, cousin Vida, go with me to-day, won't you?" asked Harry, a

bright boy of fourteen. "I know a splendid place about ten miles from

here, where we can get some evergreens; I want to trim up the house

for Christmas just as we used to in New York State. I'll take the

spring waggon and the ponies, and we'll go--you and I--all alone, and

bring home lots of greens, all cut off in short branches."

"You forget," his mother said, "that your cousin is not used to

riding in spring waggons over rough roads, and ten miles will be a

long drive for her."

"There are some red berries there, too," went on Harry, as if he had

not heard the objections, "and moss, and long vines that the frost

hasn't found yet; besides it's a grand day to ride."

"You dear boy," said Vida, "I'll go for half of the inducements you

offer." She was only too glad to fall in with any plan that diverted

her sad thoughts.

The drive lay for a long distance through the lovely open country,

the grass in many parts still green as in midsummer, and over all

the perpetual sunshine of that region. A soft golden light that even

in mid-winter glorifies the commonest object; bright skies, balmy

air, and her lively companion, cheered even Vida's drooping spirits.

Arrived in the woods, Harry ran here and there with joyful

enthusiasm, now climbing a tree like a squirrel, then darting into a

thicket for mosses. They loaded the waggon with green boughs and

filled their basket with treasures of moss and lichens, and the

gay-plumed birds flitted about with hospitable little chirps,

welcoming their visitors to their bowers of green. As each became

more intent in adding to their store they became separated. Vida was

a little distance behind a low, thick growth of trees, disentangling

a long vine of bitter-sweet, when she heard a voice that thrilled her

very soul. There was just one voice like that in all the world.

Trembling, she bent her head and peeped through the branches. One

swift glance and she knew him--her husband.

A strong self-control prevented her from swooning or crying out in

her great joy. Shaking like a leaf, yet holding firmly to a

tree-trunk, she gazed into the dear face. It was paler and thinner,

there were dark rings under the eyes, but the finely-curved mouth had

the same calm, sweet expression that told of peace within.

How like a king among men he looked, as he stood there, his hands

filled too with mosses and lichens, looking kindly on the boy and

talking interestedly. She never realised her utter folly so keenly as

at this moment. How she longed to fly to him and fall at his feet in

sorrowful confession. Two things kept her back: no eyes must witness

their first meeting, and another dreadful thought--what if it were

too late. What if he had taken her at her word and loved another.

She had not been a woman of the world so long for naught. She was an

adept in hiding her heart far out of sight. When Harry returned she

could calmly ask him, "Whom he had found in that out-of-the-way

place?"

"Why, don't you think!" said Harry, "among all the other precious

things in these woods I've found a minister. Wish we could put him

right on top of our boughs and things, and carry him home too, for

Christmas. Wouldn't mother be glad to see him, though! He preaches

every Sunday in a log church right down hereaways, and the people

come from all round the country to hear him. He looks as if he could

preach, too. Such eyes as he has, that look you through and through.

Say, let's you and me go to hear him next Sunday, will you?"

"Yes, I will!" Vida said, with such fervour and emphasis that Harry

gave her a keen look and wondered why she had a bright red spot in

each cheek. He wondered more before they reached home, for his cousin

laughed and sung in childlike glee, and was sad and silent by turns.

Her restlessness could not wait until the Sabbath. The excitement and

suspense were unendurable.

Confiding in her aunt, it was arranged between them that Moses, the

old coloured man of all work, should accompany her to Cedar Vale the

next afternoon. Just what she would do when she reached there was not

clear to her, but stay away she could not.

When the children were well off to school again after the nooning,

Vida, mounted on a fleet little pony, attended by her trusty guide,

rode quietly away. Her heart beat wildly when they drew near the

settlement. They came at last upon the church, standing in a lovely

grove of maples. The door stood slightly ajar. At a little distance

from it Vida dismounted, and directed Moses to wait there for her.

She had a consuming desire to look into the church where her husband

preached, to stand a moment in the very spot where he stood Sabbath

after Sabbath.

She stepped softly in, and there, kneeling by the little pulpit, his

head bowed upon the desk, was--her husband!

Timidly and slowly, as one who has no right, she noiselessly drew

near and knelt beside him. Stranger eyes may not look upon a scene so

sacred; but the two souls bowed together before that altar came

nearer to heaven than mortals often get.

Had not the waning light warned them that they were still upon the

earth, they might never have tired of looking into one another's

eyes, and telling each to each the experiences of that lifetime they

had lived since their separation, and striving to put into words the

depths of joy that crowned this blessed hour.

Before they left the church they knelt again in that sacred spot, and

each in low fervent words poured out thanksgivings, craving a

blessing on their reunited lives, and, by a mutual and irresistible

impulse, both spoke again their marriage vows before the Lord, in his

temple.

When they rode away that Christmas Eve on their second bridal tour,

the setting sun, smiling through the trees and slanting across their

pathway, fell on them like a benediction. Slowly and dreamily they

went on their way, willing that this ride over crackling twigs and

rustling leaves, with the soft, light of the dying day closing about

them, should go on for ever. The earnest admiring gaze of the husband

brought girlish blushes to the face of the bride. He was drawing

contrasts; the sweet humble face and the simple adornings of her who

rode by his side, made a fairer picture than the queenly lady of

haughty airs and magnificent attire, who seemed to have passed out of

existence.

Never was fairer Christmas tide than this, in that merry household;

those memorable evergreens festooning it as a bower--and a romance--a

poem--lived out--not written. There were no costly gifts, and yet,

gifts the most precious--two souls given back to each other. If the

joy bells in their hearts but had voice, their silvery ringing would

have filled all the land.

"Vida, can you be happy here until spring?" Mr. Eldred asked, a few

days after Christmas. "My work would suffer, I fear, were I to leave

it now."

"Why leave it in the spring, dear Thane? Let us stay here always, in

this beautiful, quiet place, where the people love you so, and--I did

not tell you yet," Vida said, half shyly, "but my money is not mine

any more. I gave it all to the dear Lord, I would like to build a

pretty church with some of it, and here we will stay and work, you

and I together. I can help you now, Thane--a little. Don't you like

my plan?" she said, anxiously, when he did not speak.

"My darling, you have made me so happy that I could not speak," he

said, after a little. "I wish it above all things--to go on with my

work here, and a new church is so much needed. How strange that you

should be willing to stay, and that we can work together! Oh, Vida! I

prayed--with faith, I thought--but I never dreamed of an hour like

this; surely 'It has not entered into our hearts to conceive the

things which God has prepared for them that love Him--in this life.'"

There was another sensation in an audience when the pastor of the log

church brought in his wife, for naught so fair and sweet had ever

gladdened their rustic eyes before. The singing that day was mostly

solo, or at least, duets. Her pure, birdlike voice filled the church,

and what could they do but listen, wondering meanwhile whether it

might not be a lark, or an angel come down for a season.

When a teeming, busy town covered the prairie, and the heel of

agriculture and commerce crushed out the wild flowers, the log church

was preserved as a memorial, while the spire of the handsome new one

was eagerly pointed out, its story treasured and handed down to

children's children.

These two spent their happy lives ministering to this simple people,

their hearts and hands so filled with work that they had no time to

sigh for the privileges of more cultivated surroundings. The pastor's

wife was the warm friend and sympathizer of the common people, and

her name was singularly appropriate--Vida--well-beloved.

HOW A WOMAN WAS CONVERTED TO MISSIONS.

The poor women and girls are so taken up with cleaning their houses

and dishes, and preparing their daily meals, that they will not give

themselves up to thinking in the least. So writes Miss Blunt

concerning the women of India. It was something of the same sort that

prevented Mrs. John Williams from giving herself up to thinking, or

from thinking about anything but her own private affairs. Not that

Mrs. Williams gave herself up to scrubbing doors and windows and

cleaning pots and pans with her own hands, but she was "taken up" all

the same. When Christ was a babe on earth there was no room for him

in the inn, so to-day many a heart is so full that Christ and his

cause are turned out. If a heart is full how can it hold more? Do not

suppose that there was no thinking done by Mrs. Williams. She

superintended all her work and did much of her own sewing; as her

family was not small and her income not large, and she kept but one

servant, it took a vast deal of thinking and worrying to keep the

Williams family up to the standard, which was one not of neatness and

comfort simply, but that she should live in the same style as those

of her friends whose incomes were possibly twice as large as her own,

that her children's clothes should be just as fine and as fashionably

made as theirs, that she herself should be able to make as good an

appearance as the best when she went into society, that her parlour

should be furnished as far as in her lay, with all the elegance and

taste that the law of the fashionable world required. This was the

grand aim to which she bent all her energies.

Mrs. Williams was a member in good and regular standing of an

orthodox church. She regularly occupied her pew in the sanctuary, and

when she had no other engagement, attended the weekly prayer-meeting,

but the most persistent and zealous member of the "Ladies' Foreign

Missionary Society" had never succeeded in inducing her to attend

their monthly meetings, but just once. She took pains to explain it

carefully to her conscience that she believed in Foreign Missions,

but that didn't prove that it was necessary for her to spend a whole

afternoon each month hearing dry reports and "papers" about countries

with outlandish names. What good did that do anyway? It was

mysterious--how ladies could do justice to their families and spend

so much time out. As for herself she could scarcely keep up with her

calls. But then! they neglected their families, of course they did;

women that were always on a committee for something or other, and

running off here and there to all kinds of meetings. Very likely,

too, it just suited some women to get up on a platform before an

audience, and read a "paper" or "report." It was just a little

leaning to Woman's Rights. She believed in a woman keeping in her own

sphere, and for her part she craved no such notoriety. She had always

noticed, too, that the women who gave themselves up to those things

seemed to lose all regard for their appearance. Now it really was a

duty one owed to their friends, to dress well, and some of those

missionary women were wearing their last year's bonnets; and dresses

of the styles of three or four years back--perfect frights!

She did not see the need of women having a society by themselves

either. Probably they raised just as much money before the ladies got

to making such a fuss about it, it all came out of their husband's

pockets anyway. Her husband always had contributed to Foreign

Missions, and always would probably (it's true he did, a dollar a

year!) and was not that just as well as for her to be bothering her

head about it?

"There!" said Mrs. Williams, one bright afternoon in April, as she

glanced from her window. "There comes that Mrs. Brown. I know what

she's after. She wants me to go to that stupid missionary meeting. I

suppose this is the afternoon for it. I promised her I would go again

some time--sorry I did too. That's just as much sense as some persons

have; think that one can drop everything and go to a missionary

meeting--in the spring of the year, too, when there is so much sewing

to be done;" and she hastily instructed Bridget to tell Mrs. Brown

that she was "engaged." So Mrs. Brown went on her way to the meeting,

and sat in heavenly places, and had her heart stirred with new love

and zeal, while Mrs. Williams sat at home, and worked diligently on a

dress for her young daughter, an elaborate dress of frills, and lace,

and embroidery, and many weary stitches. At the close of the day she

congratulated herself that she had accomplished a fine afternoon's

work.

There were whole seas of sewing to be waded through, Mrs. Williams

said, before she could have any spare afternoons. There was the

dressmaking, all her own dresses to be remodelled after the present

style, besides new ones (when Mrs. Williams had a dressmaker in the

house--to use her own words--she "almost worked herself to death")

then there was all the other sewing. It really was appalling to think

of the amount of ruffling and tucking and side-pleating and puffing

that must be gone through, before the summer wardrobes of herself

and her little daughters would be completed. There was the

house-cleaning, the smallest detail of which required her personal

supervision, for Mrs. Williams was elaborate throughout; all her

housekeeping was squared up to certain fine lines. If she ever had a

morsel of time from these things, stern necessity compelled her to

spend it in fancy work; for tidies, and soft pillows, and

bracket-covers, and stand-covers, and mats were indispensable. When

Mrs. Williams was asked to subscribe for "Woman's Work for Woman,"

she assured them that she knew already all about woman's work that

she desired to.

It was done at last--the spring sewing and the house cleaning, and

the summer heats had come. The day was warm, and Mrs. Williams, in a

cool white wrapper, had established herself on the parlour sofa with

a book. She had neglected to tell Bridget that she was not at home,

and just as she was in the most absorbing part of one of George

Eliot's absorbing novels, a caller was ushered in. "Mrs. Brown! that

missionary woman again! Was ever anyone so persecuted before?" Here

she had just come to a breathing spell, where she had hoped to take

a little rest and comfort, and now she must be annoyed. To go, was

out of the question. It was too hot; and besides, she did not in the

least feel like going to a meeting of any sort. She wanted to finish

her book; so she told Mrs. Brown that she was very much worn out with

over-exertion, and the day was so warm that she would not venture

out. She should probably fall asleep in the meeting if she went. It

seemed that even when there came a time that work did not fill Mrs.

Williams' heart, Satan was on the alert to pre-empt it, and keep her

from all Christian activity. How he must rejoice at each new withe he

fastens over the heart he covets. Here was a large-hearted,

energetic, skilful woman--thoroughly consecrated. She would be a

power for Christ. Mrs. Williams was not a hard-hearted woman, but she

found no time to listen to the sorrowful story of those who know not

God. She knew very little of it at all, and like her heathen sisters,

was so "taken up" that she "could not give herself to thinking."

When the rage for decorating and the mania for pottery seized the

female mind, it began to dawn across Mrs. Williams' perceptions that

all her belongings were exceedingly plain, that she positively

needed, and must have two large vases for the parlour at least. She

lay awake thinking about it a good part of the night. Something must

be done. The expensive imported ware was out of the question--beyond

the limits of her purse at present. Mrs. Williams was a woman of

resources, who seldom failed to rise to the necessity of the

occasion; and from her inner consciousness she evolved a perfectly

delightful plan. When a young girl at school, she had taken lessons

in oil colours, and possessed not a little artistic ability. Why not

manufacture her own pottery and decorate her own china? That was a

most inspiring idea; she could scarcely wait for morning to appear,

so eager was she to put her plans into execution. She would go into

the city, get a few instructions and some materials, "then we shall

see what we shall see."

The next day was a harbinger for a hot day; but what of that? What

would not one undergo when pottery was in question? So she spent the

sultry-summer days examining all the different styles of vases with

the same eager minuteness that an amateur milliner studies hats on

"opening day." Her vases should be precisely like that elegant pair

of Copenhagen ware that cost fifty dollars. Then this ambitious,

energetic, deluded woman went home, and proceeded to shut herself in

her room, and dabbled in paint from morning till night. Her

enthusiasm arose to such a pitch, that she neglected her sewing and

her calls; and after she had produced a really creditable pair of

vases, she was stimulated to go on. She painted lovely little

bouquets on her tea-set, and decorated everything in the house from

china to coal-scuttle.

About this time Mrs. Williams received an invitation to a party, not

an unusual thing, but this was a very select affair; the very highest

stratum of society. She was holding a counsel with herself, and doing

some very close thinking on the all-important subject of her

wardrobe, and she came to the usual feminine conclusion that

"positively" she had "nothing to wear," when she was interrupted by a

call from the collectors of the missionary society--the faithful,

punctual collectors, whose visits were as sure as the sun and the

dews. Mrs. Williams had decided that self-defence required her to

become a member of that society, afford it she must, in some way. Her

bills for the pottery had amounted to a considerable sum, home

industry notwithstanding, and the fact stared her in the face that

she must have a new silk for that party--but it was plain she had

dodged those collectors just as long as she could.

What a relief it was to learn that only ten cents a month constituted

one a member of the society. She answered quite graciously that she

should be most happy to throw in her mite. If Mrs. Williams could

have had a peep into the collectors' books, and have seen that Mrs.

A. and Mrs. B. subscribed fifty cents a month, and that Mrs. C. and

D. subscribed one dollar a month, and others whom she copied and

followed were even benevolent to the amount of two or three dollars a

month, then Mrs. Williams would have compassed sea and land to

procure the money, before she would have allowed her name to be among

theirs with, that small amount set after it. She suggested that she

pay the whole sum at once. "What was the use of troubling them to

call every month;" and when they said they preferred to have it in

monthly payments, she thought within herself, "Now, that is just like

women; they have no business capacity, most of them, travelling up

and down, wasting their time, making twelve trips for what they might

accomplish in one;" which hasty censure upon her own sex was only

another proof that she had not "given herself up to thinking;"

certainly not on the philosophy of giving.

Having disposed of the collectors, Mrs. Williams sallied forth on a

shopping expedition, in high spirits at having come off so easily,

and yet a placid feeling in her conscience that now she had

contributed to "foreign missions." She spent the morning in weighing

the merits of this piece of silk and that, and finally purchased a

dress, rich and costly, and some soft filmy laces of marvellous

beauty at a marvellous price. If her poor weak conscience made a

protest it was silenced by "I must have it." Who shall say that the

heathen are all in Africa or China, or the islands of the sea?

And so the busy days went on, dressmaking, house-cleaning, calling,

canning, pickling, parties, pottery, and fancy work, time for it all.

How could one think much about such far-away interests as heathen

women when her hands and heart were so full?

Sometimes we call such "Marthas," and make light of the fact that we

have loaded ourselves down with such heavy burdens, and take comfort

in the thought that one of the women whom Jesus loved was in the same

condemnation; but we forget that her anxious housewifely cares were

for Jesus. Dare we say as much for ours?

One morning Mrs. Williams was not bustling about with her usual

activity. She sat in her own room with a grave, troubled face. She

was in deep thought, and it was not some scheme for adding to her

wardrobe, or the furnishings of her house, that formed the subject

of her meditations. Perhaps the days are not past when the Lord

speaks to a soul "in a dream, in a vision of the night, when deep

sleep falleth upon men." Mrs. Williams was not a nervous woman, full

of strange fancies, and her dreams heretofore had been passed by as

idle phantasies of the brain, but the remarkable and solemn one of

the previous night could not be so dismissed, and like one of old,

her "spirit was troubled."

In her dream, the day had come for her to die, and leave her busy

work for evermore. She could recall it all most vividly, the flash of

surprise, the anguish, the feeling that she was not ready, the swift

searching of her heart to find her hope, the feeble despairing cry,

Oh Christ, forgive me! the weeping friends, not heeded in the

all-absorbing thoughts, "What is this? Where am I going?"

Then the sinking away, the last gasp, and eternity opened! In the

distance there dawned upon her vision the glory of the city, the

golden gates, the crowns, the harps, the white-robed throng, the

wonderful music thrilling her soul. As she tremblingly approached

the gate, her heart gave a bound, for that kingly One could be no

other than Christ the Lord, the one she loved years ago before the

world got hold of her. Surely he would recognise her; but when she

timidly ventured nearer, and spoke his name, there was no smile of

welcome, no "Come, ye blessed;" the look was cold, the face averted.

In tears and agony she begged an angel to open the gates and let her

in. When he asked her whence she came, and by what right she hoped to

enter, she murmured out that she belonged to Christ's church when she

was on earth. Then he bade her come with him. He lifted a veil and

said, "Look!"

There were rooms filled with beauty, opening into each other, and

stretching off into the distance. There was rich furniture, carpets

of softest velvet covered the floors, mirrors and paintings filled

the walls; there were exquisite vases of delicate tints and graceful

forms, finest statuary, innumerable and endless articles of

ornamentation, and, lying about in rich profusion, were costly silks

and glittering satins and rare laces; jewellery flashed out here and

there; diamonds and pearls and all precious gems in beautiful

settings, novels in costly binding, food delicate and tempting in

abundance and variety. "It was for such as these," the sad voice of

the angel said, "that you bartered your soul; these are the things

you coveted and toiled for in your earth-life."

How perfectly empty and unsatisfying it all looked to her now, with

that glorious city in full view, and the shining ones gathered about

their King; their hallelujahs rising in grand chorus to "Him who

loved them and washed them in his blood." In deep distress she begged

to be allowed to go in where the Saviour was. Then the angel lifted

another veil.

There were the dark places of the earth spread out before her;

millions upon millions of human beings bowing before idols, little

children cast into cruel flames, and women, sad, wretched women, a

whole world full of them; besides those, there were the poor,

degraded, ignorant ones of her own city.

"Did you ever read in your Bible, said the angel, 'Inasmuch as ye did

it not to one of the least of these, ye did it not to Me?'"

Deep horror seized upon her, for memory brought before her, as in

letters of fire, that other word in her own Bible--that awful word,

"depart."

Mrs. Williams needed no Daniel to interpret her dream. Unlike the one

of the King of Babylon it brought her in brokenness of spirit to the

feet of her Saviour; and he who said, "A new heart will I give you,

and a new spirit will I put within you," was faithful to his promise.

The woman, who left her room after hours of heart-searching and

confession before God, came out of that room with "the new spirit"--a

consecrated soul, henceforth to be obedient to the Master's slightest

wish. The whole aim of her life was changed, her pursuits, her style

of living. She found, too, ample time to do the Lord's work, and to

"look well to the ways of her household," and the Lord gave her much

service for him, and the work was very sweet.

Does he not wait to give to any of us who have been half-hearted

laggard Christians, this "new spirit," this anointing whenever we

shall give our whole hearts to him. Then shall it be "joy, nor duty,"

then we shall say, My tongue, dear Lord, to speak for Thee, my hands

to minister to Thee, my feet to run Thine errands.

MRS. LEWIS' BOOK.

PART I.

THE BOOK.

The ladies of Thorndale met one afternoon in early autumn in Mrs.

Lee's parlour for an important purpose. There was a previous

understanding that the meeting was for all who felt interested in

discussing plans for their own mental improvement during the coming

winter. The chairman said: "Now, ladies, speak out your minds on this

subject with freedom and promptness."

Mrs. Peterson spoke first--she always did--"For my part I wish we

could study or read something or other that would give us something

to talk about when we meet in sewing society and other places. I'm

tired going to sewing society and sitting perfectly mum by the side

of my next neighbour, because I don't know what under the sun to say.

After we have done up the weather and house cleaning and pickling and

canning, and said what a sight of work it is, and asked whether the

children took the measles and whooping-cough, and so on, I'm clear

run out, for I _won't_ talk about my neighbours, and I don't keep any

help; I've noticed 'hired girls' is a subject that doesn't seem to

run out very soon."

"Let us form a literary society," said one; "prepare essays, and

discuss some subject that will require considerable study in posting

ourselves." This lady was newly married, and "boarded;" therefore

time was one of the things that she possessed in the greatest

abundance.

"That will never do," said a busy little mother, "every lady that was

to prepare an essay would be sure to have a sick baby, or a house

full of company; then the most of us can only give little snatches of

time to this, besides the afternoon or evening that we meet; that

would surely be a failure; we want something that will not end in

smoke after a few weeks."

Mrs. Lewis spoke next. When Mrs. Lewis spoke everybody always paid

attention. She was a large, fine looking lady of seventy or

thereabouts. Old age had crowned her with a halo of soft snowy hair,

while her dark eyes still glowed with almost the brightness of youth.

Her naturally fine mind, enriched by extensive reading, and her deep

religious experience, combined to constitute her almost an oracle in

the little town. In all their gatherings she was the centerpiece, a

very queen for dignity and elegance, in her invariable black silk,

and soft white cap. "Let us study the Bible," said Mrs. Lewis. "I

don't know of any book we are more ignorant of."

"Oh, Mrs. Lewis! You wouldn't make us into a Sabbath-school class, I

hope," said feathery little Mrs. Etheridge. "I thought we did that up

years ago. I am sure I can repeat quantities of it," and she tossed

back her pretty head and looked wise. "The Bible is all well enough

for the Sabbath, but I should dearly love to read the poets. I am

passionately fond of Byron; some of his poems are just too sweet for

anything."

Some of the wise ones almost thought Mrs. Lewis' text had a spice of

sarcasm in it as she quoted for answer, "The testimonies of the Lord

are sure, making wise the simple."

Miss McIntosh, learned, and strong-mindedly inclined, said that she

had heard that the ladies in Millville had spent one afternoon a week

in the study of Political Economy, with very much benefit; they felt

that their minds had been enlarged and strengthened; her preference

would be for something of that sort, some broad, deep subject, that

would require study; she would suggest Mental Philosophy.

"The Bible just fits in there," said Mrs. Lewis. "'Thy Word is a

great deep,' and Peter said that Paul wrote 'things hard to be

understood,' you remember."

"And that's queer, too," spoke up Mrs. Peterson. "Such a deep book,

and yet I feel more at home in it than in any other book you have

talked about, and I haven't much learning to speak of either. But I

get so interested in some of the folks in it, and the Lord's dealings

with them. I've been thinking about Moses ever since Mr. Parker

preached about his not being allowed to go into the promised land. It

seems as if I was acquainted with him. It must have been a powerful

disappointment to him, after he had trudged along so many

years--turned back, too, when he'd got a good piece on his way; then

it was so aggravating, to get up there and look over into the nice

green meadows, and know that if he hadn't let out his temper so, he

might have gone in with the rest of them. I declare, I got so

exercised thinking it over when I was a working my butter, that I

forgot to salt it."

"I think I should like to study Shakespeare," said Mrs. Berkeley.

"Where does one find such knowledge of human nature as there? Where

else are such rare gems to be had by digging?"

"In my book," said Mrs. Lewis, "the Psalmist says, 'It is more to be

desired than gold, yea, than much fine gold;' and another says, 'It

is a discerner of the thoughts and intents of the heart.' Is not that

a knowledge of human nature that excels even Shakespeare?"

"It strikes me a variety would suit all," said another. "George

Eliot's writings are full of power, and deep enough for me, I assure

you. We might read some of her books, then some of Dickens and

Thackeray, then occasionally a book of poems; Longfellow and

Whittier, or, if we want to study harder, there is Mrs. Browning,

Tennyson, and Shakespeare. It would be excellent discipline to try

and get at the exact meaning of the authors, and puzzle out all the

obscurities, it would not be long before we should feel quite rich in

a literary way. In reading such works together, and talking them

over, of course we make them ours as we can in no other way."

"The grass withereth, the flower fadeth, but the word of the Lord

endureth for ever," quoted Mrs. Lewis. "Do you know that all those

writings, valuable and good in their place as they are, when compared

with the Bible seem to me just like grass and flowers? Now, if we

have but a little time to give to study, why not spend a good part of

it in studying the 'endureth-for-ever' book, because, as nearly as I

can find out, that book and ourselves are the only things in this

world that are going to endure for ever? Don't it strike you that in

such a case we ought to be more familiar with it than with all these

others?"

Mrs. Lewis' solemn words put a silence on the lips for a few minutes,

but practical Mrs. Brown broke it by remarking:

"Perhaps it would be a good plan for us to study hygiene. I have

always thought, if we gave more attention to ventilation, and to what

we shall eat and wear, and so on, we should have better health."

"Yes," said a still more practical sister, "that would be real nice.

Then I was noticing in the paper that there is a Presbyterian

cook-book just out. I should like to have some read out of that."

This caused a smile to go around the circle, for Mrs. Boot was one of

those inveterate pie and cake makers, whose life consisted in the

abundance of pastry; who was an unhappy woman until she had obtained

the last new receipt for cake and made it up.

"I have an idea," said a bright little lady. "Suppose we all agree to

spend at least two evenings a week in reading or study at home, then

bring what we gather to the sewing-society and talk it over, each one

give some bit of news or scientific fact, or give a review of the

last new book."

"Oh, I have tried that a little on my own book," said Mrs. Peterson.

"I sat up one night after all the rest had gone to bed, and read all

about that Dr. Somebody, with a hard name--I can't pronounce it, it

begins with an 'S.' Well, he and his wife are digging up buried

cities, hundreds and thousands of years old--and finding the most

wonderful things, money, and jewellery, and splendid vases, and all

sorts of nice things. Now, says I to myself, I've got something to

talk about at sewing society to-morrow. It'll make 'em open their

eyes, too, I guess, so I read it all over again, to be sure and have

it at my tongue's end. Well, I went to sewing society, and when

there was a kind of a lull in talk, I began to tell three or four

that sat around me, all about that wonderful story that I'd been

reading. Do you believe it, they just poked fun at my story, and

said, 'of course 'twa'n't true, and we couldn't believe half we read

in the papers, and it would tura out like the Cardiff giant, most

likely.' I was going on to tell how he brought, out the curiosities,

and ever so many people saw them, and of course it was true; but la!

one wanted the thread, another the scissors, and another called out,

'Mrs. Peterson, do you overcast your seams or fell 'em?' Then Mrs.

Baker said, 'Why, Melia Parsons, you're making that little pair of

pants upside down, then they all hollered and yelled at Melia, and I

never tried to tell anything more about Dr. What-yer-call-him and his

cities; might just as well try to talk in a hornets' nest."

This speech produced so much merriment that the chairman playfully

called Mrs. Peterson to order, and the talk went on. Some thought a

course of history was "just the thing," in short, there were as many

different plans and opinions as there were ladies, it began to look

very much as if no decision could ever be reached.

"I hope," said Mrs. Lewis, "that I shall not be thought persistent or

officious if I say a few more words. You know I am fond of reading,

there was a time when I read everything, now I am turning away from

it all, to the blessed Bible. While I would not disparage liberal

culture, nor the reading that conduces to it, I think the time has

come when we cannot remain ignorant of the Bible and be guiltless.

Some people feel mortified if they cannot tell just where every line

of poetry that happens to be quoted can be found, but who thinks of

being ashamed because they cannot tell the author of the matchless

poems in the Old Testament? I do think there are no poems like

Isaiah's and Jeremiah's and the Psalms. For imagery and pathos and

sweetness all other poems are tame in comparison. Do we want works of

power? He says, 'My word is as the fire and the hammer.' Is it

tragedy that our souls delight in? There is the divine tragedy: 'But

He was wounded for our transgressions; he was bruised for our

iniquities.... He is brought as a lamb to the slaughter, and as a

sheep before her shearers is dumb, so he opened not his mouth,' and

the closing scene: 'And behold the veil of the temple was rent in

twain from the top to the bottom, and the earth did quake, and the

rocks rent, and the graves were opened.'"

"If we wish to strengthen and discipline our minds, and grow in

knowledge, let us study the Bible by all means, for here we find

difficulties enough to tax an angel's powers, and at the same time

find rest and consolation, means of growth, too, for we are assured

that those who meditate on that Word 'shall be like a tree planted by

the rivers of water.' Oh, you do not know, if you never have tried

it, how blessed it is to build up a pyramid of texts, for instance,

all about God's love to us, and the names he calls us by; it makes

his love such a reality. Theft there are the promises, soft pillows

for weary heads, and there are directions for all perplexities. I

tell you there is nothing like the Bible. I have tried all the rest.

Like Solomon I have found it all vanity. 'Oh, how I love thy law!'

'How sweet are thy words unto my taste!' When this becomes our

experience, life will be a different thing to us; it will not be dull

and empty. You know how we get absorbed in other reading, perhaps a

novel, and it leaves a gloomy, unsatisfied feeling when it is done,

but the Bible is never done, and the studying it grows and grows

every day. When the Lord comes, I'm afraid we shall not feel

comfortable if he finds us studying hard on every other book and his

laid by covered with dust. If I were to ask you what book you would

advise me to spend the most of my time on, the few years that I live,

whether the Bible or the current literature of the day, you would

probably say, 'The Bible by all means, because you have but a few

years left to you at most,' but the truth is, that many in this room

may die before I do. Not one of us knows what day the books will for

us be for ever closed; and did it never cross your minds that the

Bible is the only book we will want to take with us away down to the

edge of the river? When I lie down to die I feel sure that I shall

not wish for a page of mental philosophy whispered in my ear, nor the

finest passage of Shakespeare; but, 'Yea, though I walk through the

valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; Thou art with

me,' and 'I have loved thee with an everlasting love.' 'Thou art

mine, I have called thee by my name.' 'I will never leave thee nor

forsake thee.'"

"Let us compromise this matter," suggested Mrs. Parker. "Let every

other meeting be devoted to Bible study, and a committee be appointed

to select something from the works mentioned here to-day as subjects

for the intervening meetings."

This seemed to strike all favourably, and was voted upon, receiving

an affirmative vote. It was further suggested and decided that Mrs.

Lewis should lead all the Bible meetings.

"Then I shall take you in hand at once," said Mrs. Lewis, "and

announce that the next meeting will be at my house next Thursday

afternoon, and the subject will be 'How to Use the Book.' I shall ask

you to look out texts on the subjects, and to bring pencils and

Bibles that you will not be afraid to mark, and do, dear sisters, let

us give to the study of this Book the same zeal and painstaking that

we do to our housekeeping, or our gardening or fancy work, then we

shall receive a blessing--I am sure of it."

PART II.

THE BOOK OPEN.

Mrs. Lewis' parlour was not like anybody's else. Some of her

neighbours said she was "queer, as much money as she had, too." By

"queer" they meant that it was perfectly incomprehensible to them,

that Mrs. Lewis did not have her parlour hung in dark paper with gilt

blommies; have lace curtains with very long trails, a dark,

many-coloured carpet, mirrors, and handsome furniture wearing linen

aprons; the whole thing shut up stately and dark, except on high

days; this, instead of the cheery room where five-minute callers with

cards and best toilets seldom came; people always "ran in" here and

stayed awhile. This room was large and light, both wall and carpet a

delicate tint of grey, brightened here and there by bits of colour in

the shape of gaily-covered easy-chairs, rug tidies, and the like, yet

nothing was too fine for daily use.

There were fine engravings on the walls, and plants and sunshine in

the south windows. In the centre stood a large round table covered

with books, newspapers, pen and ink; altogether it looked much more

like a gem of a study than a parlour, but was the best and handsomest

room in the house, whatever it might be called; and here Mrs. Lewis

knit, and sewed and studied, here the fire was always bright and the

welcome warm; young and old went in and out with freedom. Her table

was supplied with the best and latest books and magazines, so making

a sort of reading-room, as free and open to young men as though it

were public.

The room was well filled on the Thursday afternoon appointed for the

meeting, which was opened by a few earnest words of prayer; then Mrs.

Lewis remarked, "I want to say in the outset, that I do not set

myself up as a teacher in these gatherings; we are all learners

together. Let us conceive ourselves to be miners digging for gold or

precious stones, in the Lord's mine, the Scriptures; then when he

points out to one a precious gem that our eyes may not light on as we

pass along, let that one hasten to show it to us also with something

of the same eagerness that most of us would display if we found a

jewel in our path. In thinking of this subject: 'How to use our

Bibles,' I am reminded of my first sewing machine. Many years ago,

when sewing machines were not as common as now, my husband sent to

New York and purchased one for me. I read the instructions, and

followed them as I thought, but I did not succeed, the thread knotted

up in heaps and it skipped stitches. After repeated failures I set it

aside, and plodded on in the old way, trying to do all the sewing of

my large family by hand. At last a lady from a neighbouring town came

to visit me. It so happened that she owned a machine of the same

kind. She sat down before mine, turned the screws, oiled it, put the

work in, and sewed a long seam as by magic. Then she patiently

explained every little thing I needed to know. It was a happy day to

me when I could sew on it too, I assure you, and you all know from

experience just what a comfort and help that machine was to me for

years afterwards. I am convinced that in like manner I groped and

stumbled along a long time in my Christian life because I did not

know how to use my Bible."

"I am not sure," said Miss McIntosh, "that I quite understand your

illustration. The sewing machine was, of course, no use to you until

you had learned all its mysteries, it was the same as locked up to

you, you needed a key, but here are our Bibles in plain English; if

we read them I cannot see why we will not be benefited."

"Yes, benefited in a certain way, just as any excellent book will

lift one up, but I know people who are well versed in the historical

parts of the Bible--can repeat large portions of the Gospels, and yet

are blind; they have not apprehended Christ in it all. We need the

Spirit's teachings, or, plain as it is, we may go from Genesis to

Revelation and never once look into the eyes of our Saviour with

trusting faith, yet there he is on every page. Food is nothing to us

when hungry if we do not eat it, and truth will not save us if it be

not realised. 'Then opened he their understanding that they should

understand the Scriptures.' 'The things of God knoweth no man but by

the Spirit of God.' Not until that light shines upon the book do our

souls cry out in joyful recognition, 'Master' and 'My Lord and my

God.' Not until that Divine touch opens our eyes can we say of his

words, 'I love them exceedingly.'"

"But you do not suppose," said Mrs. Berkely, "that every one can have

that wonderful insight into Scripture that some persons have, or that

all are expected to really love to read it. I never think that I

ought to let a day pass by without reading my chapter, but I confess

that I do it because it is my duty. Everybody can't be like one woman

that I used to know. She kept her Bible by her in her work-basket,

every few minutes she would take it up and get a bit from it, then go

on with her work. Everybody called her a fanatic, but she seemed to

enjoy herself, and was the best person I ever knew; I always supposed

she possessed a sort of gift that is only given to a very few."

"I believe that the promise, 'He shall teach you all things,' will be

fulfilled to all who claim it," said Mrs. Lewis.

"You recollect," said Mrs. Parker, "how Luther loved the Bible after

that wonderful light shone into his soul? I have read somewhere that

the cxixth Psalm was his favourite, because in all its one hundred

and seventy-six verses the Bible is mentioned in every one except

two. I have also heard that it is a favourite with Ruskin because he

has the same love for the Word that David and Luther possessed. 'How

sweet are Thy words unto my taste,' was the burden of David's song."

"I have had just one thought following me the whole week," said Mrs.

Mills. "It came to me with such power last Sabbath, when I took my

Bible to look out some texts for the meeting to-day, that I almost

felt as if I had never known it before. It is so wonderful that God

and the Holy Spirit have written a Book and we have it! and, what is

stranger still, that we dare to neglect it. One would suppose that a

superstitious fear would make people read it, if nothing else. I

believe that the Lord himself sent that solemn realisation to me; it

has seemed a different Book to me ever since. If an angel should come

down and bring me ever so short a letter from the Lord, with some

expressions of favour, I should be consumed with joy; and here I have

not only one, but so many, and never took it in before."

"My heart standeth in awe of thy word," repeated Mrs. Lewis; then,

turning to one who sat near her, said, "We want a word from you, Mrs.

Barnes." Mrs. Barnes had slipped into the most obscure seat in the

room, almost behind Mrs. Lewis' chair. She was one of Mrs. Lewis'

most intimate friends, and herein was another proof of "queerness" in

the eyes of some of Mrs. Lewis' neighbours, "because she made so much

of that Mrs. Barnes." No one had ever thought of calling such a

dignified, intelligent-looking woman a "washer-woman," and yet she

did take some of her neighbours' clothes to her home and wash and

iron them--why not? since she was strong and they were not, and she

wanted money and they wanted clean clothes. However it was, these two

women saw eye to eye. It was no uncommon thing when Mrs. Barnes'

snowy wash was flapping in the wind, and she had slipped on her clean

gingham, and stepped over to Mrs. Lewis' a minute, to have the minute

lengthen to an hour or more, they had so much in common to talk

about. Their absent Lord--His work, and how to further it, were

themes they did not weary of.

So Mrs. Barnes put on her glasses and opened her old Bible and read,

"As new born babes, desire the sincere milk of the Word, that ye may

grow thereby."

"I find here," she said, "that the Bible is to be our food, and that

it is intended to make us grow. Now one can't grow without the right

kind of food. The verse makes me think of my dear little grandson

Neddie. His mother was taken away, and he was left a wee baby for us

to bring up. We had such a hard time to find anything to agree with

him. We tried milk and water, and arrowroot, and cracker-water, but

he didn't thrive, he was nothing but skin and bone; finally he got

sick and we called the doctor, and he said, 'Why this child is

starving to death! What do you feed him? Don't give him any more such

stuff,' he said. 'Try another cow, and give him pure milk.' So we got

a new milch cow and fed him fresh milk, and I can't begin to tell you

what a wonderful change it made in that child in less than three

weeks' time; the dear little fellow got just as plump, his hands were

like cushions, and he was well and happy as a robin. Maybe that's the

reason there are so many weakly Christians. I shouldn't wonder if

souls need the right sort of food as well as bodies in order to be

healthy. I have some neighbours that my heart just aches for; all

their reading is yellow-covered books, such as 'The Pirate's Bride,'

and 'The Fatal Secret.' Such food is worse than cracker-water, and

arrowroot, for they are starving souls instead of bodies, and the

Word can't find any place to take root, much less to grow, when the

mind is filled up with such trash."

"Joseph Cook thinks," said Mrs. Lewis, "that even Bunyan, Jeremy

Taylor, Pascal, and Thomas a'Kempis himself, work mischief, if these

books shut out the Bible from daily and almost hourly use.'

"Is it possible," said Mrs. Etheridge, "that anybody can make out

what Joseph Cook thinks? I know everybody is running wild over him,

so I just took one of his lectures the other day after dinner, and

sat down by the fire. But dear me! I couldn't make anything out of

it. Now, I can take one of Mrs. Henry Wood's lovely books and read

from dinner to tea, without being tired or sleepy."

Mrs. Lewis smiled as she answered:

"I admit that, like Paul, Joseph Cook writes some things hard to be

understood, and it often takes considerable thought to get at his

meaning, but when you have studied it out it is something worth

having. He speaks to Boston people mostly, you know, and perhaps they

would not understand very plain English. Here is a sentence from him,

though, that is clear enough: 'Do you know a book that you are

willing to put under your head for a pillow when you lie dying? Very

well, that is the book you want to study while you are living.'"

"But, Mrs. Lewis," continued Mrs. Etheridge, "you know some

physicians think we ought to eat the sort of food that relishes most.

Why does that not apply to our minds as well? Now I am naturally

melancholy, and need something to raise my spirits. Don't you think

that the Bible is almost too sober, dreary reading for such

persons--at least until they begin to grow old?"

Mrs. Lewis turned a loving, pitying look on the pretty young wife,

and whispered a prayer for her as she answered:

"Jeremiah and David did not find it a gloomy book, for they both said

this: 'Thy word was unto me the joy and rejoicing of my heart.'

My dear, I want to put my testimony with theirs, that in a long

lifetime--part of it spent in every variety of worldly pleasure--that

there is nothing, nothing that has or can give me the joy that the

words of my dear Lord do. I claim no credit that it is so. I believe

that the same sweet experience will be given to all who truly desire

it."

"I can't agree with that idea, either," said Mrs. Brown, "that the

best kind of food is what one relishes most. My children relish pie

and cake and candies wonderfully, but I know it is not good for them

to eat much of them. When they have no appetite for good bread and

milk, and such nourishing food, I know there is something amiss with

them--they are sick--and did you ever notice this? Children who are

allowed to live mostly on these knicknacks do not relish plain food,

and do not thrive. The text that was last read did not say that we

were to read the Bible as a duty, but to desire it. If we have no

appetite for the spiritual nourishment that is best for us to grow

on, I do not know why we are not sick Christians?"

"It strikes me," said Mrs. Peterson, who had watched in vain for an

opportunity to speak before, "that while you are talking about the

Bible being food for us, making us grow, and all that, my text about

meditation comes in; David says, 'I have more understanding than all

my teachers, for thy testimonies are my meditation.' I can speak from

experience about that; I know it makes a sight of difference how you

read. I had quite a sick spell once, a sort of low fever, and when I

began to get better I was so weak I couldn't eat hardly anything; I

heard the woman that took care of me tell the doctor that if I didn't

eat more I'd starve as sure as the world; and the doctor said, 'no I

wouldn't, that the amount a body ate wasn't the main thing, it was

what was digested, and that it did mischief to eat more than one

could digest; so I kept on taking my little bit of beef-tea a good

many times a day, but I was very weak for a long time: I couldn't

even hold my Bible to read it, and I began to fret about it; I was

used to reading my two or three chapters a day, and I felt sort o'

lost without them. One day my next neighbour brought in what she

called a 'Silent Comforter,' and hung it on the wall; it had only

three or four texts on a page in large letters, so that I could read

it without glasses. Well, what a comfort that was, to be sure. I had

nothing to do all day but lie there and think of those verses; it

seemed like a new Bible. Every morning they turned a leaf over, and I

was more anxious to see what my new verses would be, than to eat my

breakfast. When I got a little stronger I wrote down everything I got

out of them. Well, I tell you it was just wonderful how much there

was in them. I had more good of the Bible, it seemed to me, that

three weeks than I ever did before. Then I remembered how I used to

read my chapters, my mind half the time on something else, most

always in a hurry, thinking it was time I was skimming my milk or at

my baking, and wondering whether I should bake apple pies or pumpkin

that day; think of it! how awful it was to mix up things like that;

but then I thought I must read my three chapters anyhow. Well, I

didn't do like that any more when I got around again. I called to

mind what the doctor said about eating, and says I, that's exactly

the way it is with the Bible, it has got to be digested; so I took

what time I could and put all my mind on a small portion, and tried

to keep it with me all day. Now I don't want to be boasting about

myself, but I do say I love the Lord as I didn't used to, and it all

comes of his blessed Book. There, I've talked too long! I always do."

"Can we not now have a number of texts that tell us from the Word

itself how it is to be used?" said Mrs. Lewis. And these were

promptly given, such as, "Search the Scriptures." "Teach me thy

statutes." "Great peace have they that love thy law." "That we

through patience and comfort of the Scriptures might have hope. And

shalt talk of them when thou sittest in thine house, and when thou

liest down, and when thou risest up." "I hope in thy Word." "To the

law and to the testimony; if they speak not according to this Word

there is no light in them." "Thou hast known the Holy Scriptures,

which are able to make thee wise unto salvation." "I trust in thy

Word." "Wherefore comfort one another with these words." "Thou hast

commanded us to keep thy precepts diligently." "Thy word is a lamp

unto my feet and a light unto my path." "All Scripture is given by

inspiration of God and is profitable for doctrine, for reproof, for

correction, for instruction in righteousness."

"Here is another bit from Joseph Cook that I think will help us,"

said Mrs. Parker. "'If every five years you can mark a Bible

thoroughly, and memorise what is marked, it will be your best diary.

You can do little better in reading than to fill the margins of a

copy of the Scriptures once every five years full of the records of

the deepest inmost in your souls, to be intelligible to yourself and

to no one else. Shut the door on that record. Enter into your closet

and keep your secrets with Almighty God.'"

"Why, I read a most delightful book lately called 'Daniel Quorm'"

said Mrs. Lee, "that brought out the same idea. Daniel marked his

Bible in that way--marked texts that expressed his state of mind or

heart at the time and put the date in the margin. It occurred to me

that it would be an excellent plan. One could judge in looking over

a Bible so marked whether they were advancing or going back in their

Christian experience."

"I heard Ralph Wells say, in a Sabbath-school convention last

summer," said Miss Day, "'that it is he that doeth His will that is

to know concerning the doctrine, and that no spectacles are so

precious for right understanding of the Word as a conscience void of

offence toward God and man.' He also said in reference to Bible

study, 'Wonderful is the light one gains by simply looking out the

references.' Another good thing that I remember from him, and that I

have practised ever since is, that we 'ought to learn a verse of

Scripture each day.'"

"There is one precious way in which the Scriptures are to be used

that has not been mentioned yet," said one who had been silent thus

far, but whose face expressed lively sympathy with all she heard, "we

do not get the comfort from the promises that we might. The Lord

says, 'Put me in remembrance, let us plead together.' I think we

ought to take advantage of such a gracious permission, and bring a

promise when we come before the Lord in prayer.

"I had an old neighbour once who owned bank stock to the amount of

fifty thousand dollars, and yet he got it into his head that if he

were not very saving, he should go to the poor-house. This grew upon

him so, that he shut up all the rooms in his house, which was large

and pleasant, and he and his wife lived in the kitchen, hovering in

the coldest weather over a small fire because he thought he ought not

to afford any more, when he had only to go to the bank and present

his cheque to get all he needed. So we have only to put our names in

the promises and plead them, and they are fulfilled to us. Instead of

that, we go mourning about in the kitchen and down cellar, instead of

sitting in the 'chamber of peace.'"

"I am sorry to say that our hour is more than up," Mrs. Lewis said.

"Let us glance over what we have learned in the study of the Word: We

need the teaching of the Holy Spirit. We are to pray for light on it.

We are to love it, obey it, meditate on it, search it, desire it,

talk of it, try all things by it, sound our experience by it, plead

its promises, commit it to memory, trust in it. It is to be our food;

no other food will feed an immortal soul. It is to be our joy, to

give to us comfort, peace, faith, hope, patience, wisdom, and I will

put the cap-stone on this beautiful arch by--'I commend you to God

and to the Word of His grace, which is able to build you up, and to

give you an inheritance among all them which are sanctified.'"

BUCKWHEAT CAKES.

It was a little house, and a little new family; just two of them, and

just six months since they were made into a family, and set up

housekeeping. As a matter of course everything in the house was new

also. One may prate of antiquities, and the associations clinging

about them that render them beautiful, but after all, every couple

will always look back with delight to the time all their surroundings

were fresh and pretty, yes, even though they were not pretty; there

is a charm in a new pine table, or a bright new tin pan. This house

was a little gem, from the delicately appointed guest chamber to the

cement-lined cellar.

Mr. and Mrs. Philip Thorne sat at their breakfast-table sparkling

with new china and silver, in a dining-room so cheery with pretty

carpet, plants, singing-bird, warmth and sunshine, that the

beggar-girl who peeped in at the window might well wonder "if heaven

were nicer than that." The coffee-urn sent up a fragrant little cloud

as Mrs. Thorne turned it into delicate cups with just the right

quantity of cream and sugar, so that it was just the right colour

that coffee should be. The steak was tender and juicy, the baked

potatoes done to a turn, and yet there was a slight cloud hanging

over that table that did not come from the coffee-urn.

"Joanna does not understand making buckwheat cakes very well, I

imagine," said Mr. Thorne, eyeing the doubtful looking pile she had

just deposited on the table.

"Joanna did not make these, I made them with my own hands," responded

Mrs. Thorne. Said hands were very white and small, but truth to tell,

they were not much more skilled than were Joanna's.

"Then it must be the baking that spoils them," Mr. Thorne said.

"Why, Philip, how do you know that they are spoiled? I'm sure they

look all right," said his wife.

"That is just where you and I do not agree, my dear. They are

white-looking, they ought to be a rich brown."

"Whoever heard of brown buckwheat cakes; they are always very light

coloured."

"I beg your pardon, but they are not, as far as my observation goes,"

said her husband; "then these are thick, they ought to be thin and

delicate-looking."

"You are thinking of something else, Philip," said Mrs. Thorne,

patronisingly. "Buckwheat cakes never look differently from these; I

have noticed them at a great many places."

"You never ate them at my mother's or you could not say so, my dear."

Mrs. Thorne stirred her coffee vigorously. Was Philip going to turn

out to be one of those detestable men who always go about telling how

"their mother" used to do; "my mother," as if there was no other

mother in the world that amounted to anything.

"I always have noticed," she said, "that a person imagines, after

being from home a few years that there is nothing quite so good as he

used to get at home; even the very same things never tasted quite as

they used to. The reason is plain: taste changes as one grows older."

This very sage remark was just a little annoying to Mr. Thorne; he

was ten years the senior of his wife, and did not like allusions to

"growing older." "No one need try to convince me," he answered quite

warmly, "that I shall ever cease to enjoy the dishes my mother used

to get up if I live to be as old as Methuselah! She is the best cook

I ever knew, and she never made cakes like these."

"My mother is a pattern housekeeper," said Mrs. Thorne, with a little

flash of her blue eye, "and her cakes look precisely like these."

"The proof of the pudding is in the eating, you will admit,

I suppose. Joanna need bring in no more cakes for me; they have a

sour, bitter taste which is decidedly unpalatable."

And he arose from the table, passed into the hall and out of the

front door without his usual leave-taking.

Satan once worked immense mischief by means of an apple; now he must

needs come into that pretty dining-room and hide in a plate of

buckwheat cakes. The first approach to a quarrel in this household,

and the first buckwheat cakes of the season! The truth is, when Mr.

Thorne had said the day before, "What if we have some buckwheat

cakes?" that Ruey did not feel all the confidence in her ability

that her answer implied; but then there was her receipt-book; "they

could not be difficult," she reasoned. The receipt said: "Mix warm

water, flour and yeast, and let rise until morning,"--these

instructions she had faithfully followed, and here was the result.

Ruey Thorne, unlike some young wives, did not think it interesting to

profess utter ignorance of domestic matters; on the contrary, she had

an ambition to excel as a housekeeper. She had a general knowledge of

many things, but every housekeeper knows that practice only brings

perfection. It is one thing to watch Bridget making bread a few

times, and another thing entirely to make it one's self. So much of

Ruey's knowledge was theory, not yet reduced to practice, that she

imagined herself much more skilful than she really was, consequently

she did not claim her husband's forbearance on account of

inexperience. Philip was not rich, and she had a desire to be an

economical wife, so she did not employ an experienced cook and

chambermaid, but tried to accomplish it all by the aid of a raw

German girl.

"Of course I shall want to direct all my work," she had remarked with

housewifely pride. If Philip had only understood it all a little

better, he need not have brought out his mother's veteran cakes in

such cruel comparison with these very young ones.

That day was not a very comfortable one for either of them. The blue

eyes flashed out a tear occasionally, and she told herself, "Who

would have thought that Philip cared so much for eating! His mother's

cakes indeed! As if anybody could equal my dear precious mother in

anything!" While he told himself that he "wouldn't have thought Ruey

would have flashed up in that way for so slight a cause, and to him,

too, humph! He would just like to have her taste his mother's cakes;

it would open her eyes a little."

Later in the day they told the same parties, "I'm just ashamed of

myself that I got spunky about such a little thing, I wish Philip

would come. I'll have muffins for tea just to please him. I know I

can make muffins;" and "Poor little Ruey, I went off like a bear this

morning; I must hurry home; I'll just step in at Barnard's and get

that little panel of lilies for her."

So the muffins and lilies were laid, peace offerings on the domestic

altar, and the skies were clear again.

The next morning Ruey betook herself to her neat little kitchen to

reconstruct those cakes. She would see if it were not possible to

suit her husband in this. "Let me see, he said they were too thick; I

will thin them then. He said they were sour and bitter; sugar is

sweet and ought to remedy that." So in went the water to thin them,

and the sugar to sweeten them. "He said," she further mused, "that

they ought to be brown; brown they shall be, if fire will do it." So

she proceeded to make a furious fire, in order to heat the griddle.

"Now," she said to Joanna, "carry in the coffee and chops, then come

and bake the cakes."

The husband and wife were engaged in cheerful chat when the first

instalment of cakes arrived; a few crumpled, burnt scraps of

something.

"Why, what is this?" said Mr. Thorne.

"_Cakes!_" said Joanna, triumphantly. "She fixed 'em;" pointing to

Mrs. Thorne.

The two looked at the cakes, then at each other, and broke into peals

of laughter.

"The griddle must be too hot," said Mrs. Thorne, and she vanished

into the kitchen. She scraped the smoking griddle, and washed it and

greased it, then she stirred the grey liquid and placed two or three

spoonfuls on the griddle, then she essayed to turn them--sticking

plaster never stuck tighter than those cakes adhered to that griddle;

she worked carefully, she insinuated her knife under just the outer

edge of the cake, then gradually approached the centre, but when the

final flop came, they went into little sticky hopeless heaps. "They

are too thin," she ejaculated. "Joanna, bring flour. Now we shall

have it all right." Then another set took their places on the

griddle; these held together, they turned--triumph at last! but they

did not look inviting. Mrs. Thorne tasted one, she then made a wry

face. "Joanna," she said, with forced calmness, "you can throw this

batter away." Then she went back to the dining-room, looking very hot

and red, and said meekly to Philip: "The cakes are a failure this

morning, we will try it again tomorrow."

Philip, who had lost himself in the morning paper, roused up to say:

"Don't trouble about them any more; we have enough else that is

nice."

"The cakes will be all right another time, Philip; there was a

mistake made, they were too thin this morning; mother never makes

them thin."

Philip looked as if he would like to say:

"I don't care what your mother does; my mother's cakes are nice and

thin, and can't be beaten;" but he didn't.