father's house, Mabel saw through an open casement a table spread with every luxury and wine-red wine-crowned the feast. She saw the mother's eyes red with weeping and heard the harsh, unmanly tone of the father's voice, and then she knew the name of this unwelcome presence. The days grew darker for Dorothy, and her tears many times wet the opening blossoms of morning and fell upon the crystalized dew at night.

"Poor Dorothy," said Mabel, "truly you have known sorrow."

But now there came a change, and Dorothy was not alone. Fairer than the clear harvest moon of midsummer, brighter than the sun in midday splendor, softer, gentler than the murmuring of waters or the cooing of the ring-dove to to his mate, was the dream of happiness which crept into her soul with the coming of "Love's young dream.” Ah, well has the poet said, "There is nothing half so sweet in life!" Is there indeed anything in life worth the living for when this dream has fled? Not in life, for life's sake; but there is One whose name is Love, and in his service "loss is gain."

Mabel could see the roses blushing and budding into bloom, upon Dorothy's cheeks as she wandered by her lover's side through the autumn woods, all aflame in beauty, and down by the meadow brook where the asters and golden rod dipped and nodded close by the clumps of flaming sumac. The voice of no wild bird was sweeter in its trilling notes of gladness than was hers as she went about her household tasks or upon errands of mercy to and fro.

But alas! there came a time when Dorothy walked again alone. Cold, dark and silent was the grave where her love lay entombed, and like a slender reed bent and tossed by a winter's storm, she bowed her head in loneliness and sorrow, while the fierce winds swept by in their wrath.

Winter locked the rippling stream in fetters of ice, buried the frozen earth in a mantle of snow, and the sad winds swept through the leafless branches in a dirge sadder than a requiem for the dead. From the cheeks of Dorothy the rose faded and the light died out from her eye; her step lost its elasticity and her voice of song was stilled. The ice-bound stream and the frozen earth seemed less

cold and dead than the once warmly throbbing heart of Dorothy. But even

to the wild birds she never breathed a note of her sorrow, and her own mother could only guess how it walked with her and brooded in her heart.

All this Mabel had the power to see as she looked, for thus far the experience of Dorothy was common to all. She saw also that grief was making a wreck of her once fair life. Again in these dark days the unseen presence of her father's house walked by her side, and for her mother there came rest and the folding of cold and weary hands. Then Dorothy in utter loneliness wept and refused to be comforted.

"Surely," said Mabel, "fate is bitter, unrelenting and cruel to Dorothy."

She

But there came a change, and Mabel heard as it were the voice of chimes in the stillness of a winter's night. could see that Dorothy was listening to the music, and oh, how clear and joyous it floated out on the midnight air: "Glory to God in the highest, on earth peace, good will to men."

Then Mabel saw that there came power to Dorothy to remember what in her dream of great joy she had forgotten, "Thou shalt have no other gods before Me." Her idols were but clay, and they had been shivered, leaving her standing amid the broken fragments, worn and weary, crushed and bleeding, unable to gather them up or bind a single one together. Would this message, this gospel of peace, strengthen her to take up the battle of life anew? She listened, as there came floating over the stream of time, words which sent the blood leaping and surging through her heart as she had thought it would never leap again,

"The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he hath anointed me to preach the gospel to the poor, he hath sent me to heal the broken hearted."

Could this be the meaning of those midnight chimes? Was this the reason for those shouts of joyful gladness? Christ had been anointed to preach the gospel to the poor, he had been sent to heal the broken hearted.

When Dorothy had felt every earthly. hope a failure, it had not entered her heart that this was reason sufficient to justify her in seeking a refuge where she had never thought of looking for

one in the days of her unclouded youth. But now the thought came home to her with peculiar force and power. It was for this purpose the Christ was anointed and sent. How great the love! and even before her bruised heart.was aware of its change, her love was going out to God, because he first loved her and had sent his Son with this message of life and salvation.

Then there came to her a marvelous peace, and she thought no longer of her dead as laid away in the silent tomb. To her they were a living presence, and her countenance was radiant again with a calm joy.

The days went by and still found Dorothy the same. Beside her walked the unseen presence of her father's house, and, added to this, came poverty and toil. But despite the loss of loved ones who could never come again, and the presence ever walking by her side, Dorothy was the same cheerful, hopeful girl, who so short a time before had passed the gate of Mabel's house, stopping in the mist and rain to pet the little child and send her rejoicing on her way.

The vision faded as it came, and Mabel with a look of perplexity turned to the angel of Truth, saying:

"Is this which I have seen, really Dorothy Stanley's life?"

"It is," said Truth; "her life just as she has lived it, except that many of its cares and trials I have not shown you."

"I can not understand it," said Mabel, "and I do not see how it is possible for Dorothy to smile and be so happy in the midst of such surroundings."

You

"I told you that you would unavoidably be the loser by not going with me. say truly that you do not understand it, for you can not understand the things of God, except you have the Spirit of God to teach you. He that seeketh findeth."

"But," said Mabel, looking appealingly at Truth, "is this the way in which God rewards those who serve him. I have been thinking seriously of trying to be at Christian, because I do not enjoy that peace of mind which I believe it is possible to enjoy; but I think I am far happier than Dorothy can be. Alas, poor girl! I shall never see her again without thinking what a sad lot is hers."

"Nay; there you are mistaken," said Truth, "and I want to remind you that

"There is," replied Truth, "and it can nowhere be shown that God has ever promised to exempt his people from the sorrows which are common to the human race. The words of Christ were, 'In the world you shall have tribulations, but in me peace."

"But how can peace dwell in the heart at the same time with unhappiness?"

"The trials of this world need not produce unhappiness. In the midst of them. it is the privilege of every Saint of God to remember that he has the promise of this life and of that which is to come. Pain and sorrow are but ministering angels sent to help him in the attaining of that which he seeks."

"But even Christ shrank from the bitter cup, and prayed the Father if it were possible that he might not drink it."

"Yes," said Truth, as a tremor stole into her voice and she bowed her head at mention of that awful agony, "Christ took upon him not the nature of angels, but the nature of his brethren whom he came to save. Men have gone calmly to meet death, and think you he would shrink from the momentary pain?"

"But the death of the cross was a cruel one," said Mabel.

"Yes, I grant you that, but think you this was the cup he prayed might pass from him? Was the thought of death, that which wrung from him as it were great drops of blood?"

"Could be suffer more? Was ever a more cruel death invented?"

"If it were not possible for his brethren whom he came to save, to suffer more, why did he say to them, Fear not them which have power to kill the body.' What power had the Jews or the Roman soldiers over the Spirit of Christ? Would he say to his disciples, 'Fear them not,' and then shrink in agony and plead with the Father, 'If it be possible let it pass?' Nay; there is a depth of anguish unknown. to men in the flesh, neither can the spirit

of man taste its bitterness here. Upon Him the sins of man were laid, and he was made like unto his brethren in all things save that he never sinned. Could he redeem from a depth of woe which he had never tasted? Could he appreciate the state of the lost, never having violated a law of God? How could he, unless God had laid upon him those sins? Did he feel the weight of them? Do you hear that bitter cry, My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me!' Oh, to be forsaken of God! To call and no answering voice be heard. To stretch forth weary, bleeding hands when the heavens are closed and men shall remember their sins and that which they have lost! But praise, thanksgiving and glory to God forever and forever, that he so loved man as to give his only begotten Son to suffer and die, that whosoever believeth on him might not perish, but have everlasting life!"

"It is appointed unto man once to die, and from this death none are exempt; but Jesus Christ by the grace of God tasted death for every man. This was the second death-the bitter cup which he drank to the dregs, and through the drinking of which he obtained the power over death and hell, and brought to pass the resurrection of the dead. Through taking upon him the seed of Abraham, it became possible for him to go wherever his brethren went, and when his spirit was separated from his body, in spirit he went to his brethren, whose spirits were confined in prison, for to this work the Father had anointed him and given him power." Truth stood as though wrapt in thought, not heeding the blinding tears. falling from Mabel's eyes, but gazing as upon things unseen. At last, however, she broke the silence which had fallen between them, saying:

"Through disobedience man brought sin into the world. Death and all evils followed in the train of sin. Perfect obedience to the will of God is required of man, and when man realizes the great love of God and loves him in return, will he not be ready to both do and suffer his will?"

"I never felt this before," said Mabel, "but tell me, Truth, just how I may know the difference between serving God and serving self, for to me it seems hard to do. I naturally shrink from pain, as well as from many things which are disagreeable,

but if my final happiness is to be secured through obedience, is it not after all, happiness which I am seeking?" Love will

"Not if you love God. prompt the service, and a sense of duty well done will bring peace as its reward on earth. Duty performed at the promptings of love is the path which leads to the throne of God. Right and wrong are immutable in their nature, even as truth is eternal. Obedience to right will exalt and glorify obedience to wrong will lower and degrade. Christ has made obedience possible. He has done for man that which it was not possible for man to do for himself, and to every one who would be his disciple he says: Let him deny himself, take up his cross and follow me.' He sought not his own-came not to do his own will-not to be ministered unto, but to minister. This is what Dorothy is doing, and though it leads her over rough ways and lays upon her slender shoulders many a burden, and her lot to you seems hard and cheerless, yet she knows a joy and peace to which your own heart is a stranger, though you are surrounded and hedged in by the tenderest watchcare love can bestow.

"I believe it," said Mabel, as she heaved an unconscious sigh. "She accepts her lot as being appointed by the wisdom of God, and so leans upon him with perfect trust, and finds her joy in submitting to his will."

"Not this only," said Truth, "but she seeks earnestly to do his will. There is the grace of submission and the virtue of doing, both to be cultivated, and when man has done all in his power to do, he may safely leave the results with God."

"And yet, Truth, there is in it that which I can not understand. I should question many times whether it was all for the best, and I fear I never could have faith sufficient to accept those things which seem so hard."

"Perfect love casts out all fear.' If you loved God supremely, fear could find no lodgment in your heart. He has all power, and nothing can turn aside his purposes, and his promise is unchangeable that, All things shall work together for good to them that love God.""

"I might believe it with my understanding, but to realize and feel it in the midst of the fiery trial-this is what I can not comprehend."

"These things are known only to those who have His Holy Spirit to teach them and guide them into all truth. This Spirit is the promised Comforter, and when you are in possession of it, then you will be able to understand fully that which now seems a mystery to you."

"But," said Mabel, "I assure you that very few who profess to be Christians feel in this way. I frequently hear them talk of their trials, crosses, and troubles, as though their being Christians was in itself a cross and made the trials of life heavier. But they were willing to bear them because they expected to be rewarded for so doing."

"It will be a sad day to such," answered Truth, "when they shall discover how grievous is the mistake they have made. How beautiful are the words of Jesus to his disciples: "Peace I leave with you; my peace I give unto you; not as the world giveth, give I unto you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.' This giving is not as the giving of the world, but his peace passes all understanding, and they who know that peace will even rejoice in tribulation, thanking God that they are accounted worthy to endure it for His name's sake. But the evening wears on apace and soon the shades of night will be closing in and I must leave you."

"Oh, why must you go so soon," exclaimed Mabel. "Your presence has already lifted many a mist from my eyes, and I am beginning to see my life in colors I never saw it in before and

to realize how it is that the happiness we seek eludes our grasp. Could you but stay with me, I feel that I would soon be brave and strong."

"I am but the spirit of Truth," answered the angel visitor. Grace and truth came by Jesus Christ, and to those who believed on him he said, 'You shall know the truth and the truth shall make you free.' If you desire my presence you must come unto the Father in the name of the Son. Come in the way he has appointed, and when you do this with full purpose of heart, the Comforter will abide with you always, and lead you to me. But beware of cherishing in your heart any thoughts of selfishness, lest you grieve the Spirit and are left to your own guidance. You may still retain the outward form of Christian graces, but if the Spirit which giveth life is not abiding in you, you will stumble as you walk, not discerning what manner of Spirit is your guide."

Quietly, noislessly as she had entered, the Spirit of Truth took her departure and Mabel sat still, lost in deep thought, until a soft hand tugging at her dress, and a sweet childish voice calling, Mamma, why don't you wake up?" aroused her to a sense of her present surroundings. She took the little one up in her arms and, holding her in a fond embrace, told her again and again the story of the babe of Bethlehem, while all unconsciously her voice took a softer, sadder tone as she thought of the new light shed by the Angel of Truth upon the work appointed the Anointed One to do.

"Tis nothing at all but a baby,
And only a small one at that;

No larger, nor much better cared for
Than many a family cat.

But 'twas for such little creatures,

In all lands and ages the same, That, down on the wings of the morning, The lovely Christ Kindchen came.

The breath of that ancient frankincense The centuries have not destroyed;

The gold has come down through the ages,
In mother-love, never alloyed.

Oh! you to whom Christmas dawn bringeth
Child-eyes, so expectant and bright,
Make home for this one day a glory,
A garner for sheaves of delight.

To all who have hearts the world over,
The work of to-day is the same;
To make some dear little one happier,
Because the Christ Kindchen came.

--Selected.

M

He

AN has desires. God has provided means wherewith to gratify these desires. Man is also in a sense a plastic substance; he can be moulded, worked over, and changed into various forms, depending of course upon the means brought to bear upon him and the design of him who instituted the means. may rise to almost divine perfection or descend quite to infamous degradation. These means which may be applied in moulding the man are as various as the degrees of perfection; one of the most potent, as we believe, it is our purpose to discuss briefly.

Man is a social being. God in his infinite wisdom declares, "It is not good for man to be alone." If we could by some unknown power take hold of the gigantic wheel of time and turn it backward through a period of nearly six thousand years, we should find man in the garden, surrounded by all the effulgent beauty which God has seen fit to bestow upon the person of Nature, upon her head an azure coronet set with glittering gems; her person adorned with a robe of ultramarine blue, relieved by a vesture of emerald green, enriched here and there with shining studs of silvery whiteness, held in place with numerous bands of living splendor; rocked in the arms of unbounded space. Yet man was alone. The multitudes of animals could never be society to him; hence God in compassion "took from man's side a rib" and created an helpmeet for him.

Man thus created seeks society. Aristotle said, "He that loveth solitude is either a wild beast or a god." Few indeed are the instances where man has isolated himself from the society of his fellow beings. Families, villages, cities, states and nations exhibit this tendency of man to associate with his fellows.

Man in society comes in contact with man almost constantly. In the home, in the place of business, on the broad thoroughfare and in the house of worship, is mingling of human beings.

Aside from this there is another kind of society formed by the contact of one mind with the mind of another perhaps

long since dead. These latter are represented in our literature. This mental society is much broader than at first sight we are wont to suppose. One who reads extensively associates with hundreds, yea thousands of minds, the character of which many of them may be questionable.

We are governed by our environments. We believe it impossible for any one to disprove this statement. Who has not seen men of high intellectual attainments and seemingly good moral character fall into the snares which beset us on every hand and go down to ruin? The proposition seems too apparent to admit of argument.

All men have likes and dislikes. The power of an object to gratify our desire measures our attachment for that object. In our circle of acquaintances there are, therefore, those who please us more than do others; hence all have favorites. These favorites are they who may and do exert the most influence over us. Observation alone is sufficient to confirm this truth.

see.

Since this is true of his associates of the first class, does it follow that it is also true of those of the second class? Let us Granted: that man is a social being, 80 created; that he intuitively seeks society; that he is constantly surrounded by real and imaginary associates; that he is governed by his environments; that our attachment for an object is measured by the power of that object to gratify our desires, thus forming favorites, and that these favorites influence us most; to prove that mental association brought about by reading books casts an influence upon the mind.

First. We take up a book from curiosity and begin to read; we continue to read or cease; if we become interested, we continue, if not, we cease. Whether we become interested or not, depends upon the ability of the book to gratify our desire. If we are pleased with the book, we have a desire to read another of like nature; if we are not pleased, we seek a book of different nature; in either case the book has influenced our taste for reading.