also high? If we are allied to the worm are we not also to the archangel? And if we rise though but a hair's breadth in this ascending scale, shall we not by so much, lift the world with us? Are we to strive to assimilate in blended harmony the unreconciled dualism of our natures, or to rake out unsparingly the grosser elements, until our cleareyed spirituality can make the highest and grandest idealism of triple-crowned poets a verity? Is Time the refiner that is beating out our fine gold, eliminating the base alloy? (How infinitessimally minute some of us will become when the process is concluded!) What are years, and centuries of years, but stepping-stones in infinite progression to heights of spiritual glory? Every generation growing wiser and better, bringing our relations, "Nearer my God to Thee!" Nearer the eternal temple, within gates of pearl; where deeds are white, souls spotless, hearts crystal. For I doubt not through the ages one increasing purpose runs, And the thoughts of men are widened by the process of the suns." God's purpose was in the beginning. Through our relations to Him there has been revealed to us the morning glory, the auroral light, the unfolding brightness of the sublime purpose. But the noonday splendor of the vast conception has a flame too broad and burning for our dull sight to behold. Yet human vision is growing clearer, keener, deeper, to behold spiritual things. The human mind is broadening for truth and light. "All things shall be given unto man.” For if through one blood we are bound in one vast brotherhood, are we not bound more closely, more sacredly, and more joyfully to Him who has called Himself our elder brother. "Because ye have broken your own chain With the strain Of brave men climbing a Nation's height. Yet thence bear down with brand and thong On souls of others for this wrong" God will bring you into judgment. Let no distinctions of race, or caste, or color, build up triple-barred doors, that the silver key of brotherly love cannot unlock and open wide. We have heard God's thunder in the Nation; we have seen the terrible play of His lightnings. In mercy He has turned the blood-red pages we have been reading; may the leaves daily unfolding before us, be illumined with deeds of truth and justice; cementing more strongly and harmoniously dear and tender relations with man and with God. IT THE GLAD NEW YEAR. T was Christmas eve. Cold and clear and still the night settled down over the great city. The snow creaked in the street and the frost glistened where the light fell on wall or pavement, and the far blue arch above was all sparkling with its silvery frostwork of stars. In the heart of the city all was light and gayety and the hurry of passing feet; while along the streets bordered only by stately dwellings the gleam of many lighted rooms and the subdued murmur of music and happy voices told of Christmas cheer and gladness within. It was Christmas eve, but the lady who in the wide parlors of one of those mansions stood leaning against the mantel and gazing thoughtfully into the open grate, had nothing in her face of its gladness or its peace. Youth and health and beauty were all there, but a shadow rested on the fair brow and the delicate lips parted but to sigh. She was not unmindful of the deep, glad, holy meaning of the Christmas time. She had made the wide rooms blossom out with its joy; everywhere was twined or wreathed or festooned, the mingled evergreens, the undying verdure of onr northern forests. From a wreath of white immortelles looked out the pure, meek face of the Madonna; and in the windows she had hung, woven in the same fadeless green, a star, a cross, and a crown. She had robed herself in white, whose thick, soft folds fell round her like a mantle of snow, and in her hair she had bound a lily, emblem of the virgin mother. Ah no, she was not unmindful of Christmas. At her window she had watched the coming, one by one, of the holy stars, and her thoughts had gone back to the old plains of Palestine where, in the calm tropic night, afar from northern snows, the shepherds, sitting among their flocks, had read the same mystic lore of the skies. She saw again the opening heavens; the miracle of the appearing hosts; and all the wonder and mystery of that blessed night flowed in upon her soul, and filled her, as it had filled the shepherds, with awe-struck adoration. Then up from the heart of the city came the glad peal of the Christmas chimes, "Joy to the world, the Lord is come! Let earth receive her king." And with bowed head and lifted heart she silently joined the rapturous strain in whose grand harmony is held the united prayer of the world's believers "The Lord is come, Let earth receive her king!" But all this had passed; and she had drawn the heavy curtains and gone back to the firelight and to herself. Back to the sorrow that was never far away- "the one mute shadow watching all." Four Christmas eves had come and gone since, standing on the shore, she had watched out of sight the good ship that bore to other lands her all of life. Three Christmas eves had found her wearing outwardly a sister's mourning for his loss, and in her heart the weeds of widowhood. She felt strangely in her white robes to-night; untouched by gayety of color, pallid reminders of the changed, colorless life into which she was going back. Her heart smote her as if with her solitude and her sable robes she had put aside the sorrow of her life. Her low tone vibrated sadly in the atmosphere of the light and garlanded room. "Again at Christmas did we weave The holly round the Christmas hearth; Who showed a token of distress? No single tear, no mark of pain; O sorrow, | lest she should forget, almost dreading lest life should bring her gladness when she only looked for rest. But neither memory nor hope were to be the sole companions of her Christmas eve. The clock on the mantel tinkled from its silver bells, "it is time for Raymond," and the fairy fingers glided here and there with a last touch of the adornings, and she paused at the mirror as she heard his step, to be sure she was going to meet him with a smile. He entered, Raymond Ashley,called Reverend by the world; scarcely older, scarcely less fair than the lady who welcomed him. Though all his heart shone in his eyes, he only raised her slender hand to his lips,-the hand that an instant later passed lightly over his hair with a momentary caress. They were strange and quiet, this betrothed pair, for though the young man loved Elinor Starr with his whole soul, yet he never forgot his dead brother or her undying sorrow. He walked with her to the cheery fire, taking in as he did so all the beauty and poetry of her Christmas adornings. All this before he summoned heart to say with tender emphasis glancing at her white robes, "I thank you for this, Elinor.” She had no answer, and he lifted her pale face between his hands and said, "You are sad to-night, my pearl." "Anniversaries are always sad." "Come, sit with me and let us talk it all away. It is the eve of hope. We must not dim the world's great hope to-night." So they talked away the calm Christmas hours; a little of their own future, gravely and quietly, but most of Christ, and of the noble work they would endeavor to do for him in the world. At last Elinor spoke as if to herself, her large grave eyes looking away seemingly into that future-"it is something to live for, after all." "If you would only commence to live for it now! If you would only let it be now; this year, "Are you sure you wish it, Raymond ? " "Wish it! O, Elinor, it would be such a glad New Year!" "I am not worthy of it dear, nor of you." "God help me to be worthy of you, Eli nor." She smiled--such a weary smile! "I am it." grown too sad and old to make you happy." | wild Abyssinian his master; till, escaped He smiled back. "I am willing to risk through incredible per ls, he was working his way to a home from which four years before he had sailed full of high hope and bounding life, anticipating only the gala days of travel amid the wonders of the Orient, and the dearer joys awaiting his return. Now to what was he returning? The fair head drooped to his shoulder, the slender hand rested on his neck. "I am so tired, Raymond,—I long for rest.” Then first she realized how he loved her in the sudden, strong embrace, in the broken fervor of his words "rest here forever, my blessed Elinor!" He had not dared write home for aid. He had not dared reveal that he was living until he should know that he had still a place among the living and the loved. If he still had a home and a brother; more than all, if his Elinor could still be his, then might he make known the strange story of his return. An hour later he had risen to go. Their marriage day was appointed, their quiet plans all arranged, yet he was not quite satisfied. He lingered at the door. "You are sure you love me, Elinor? "Better than anything in the world, Ray- If it was madness to hope, it was bitterer mond." “God bless you!" God give you a glad new year! This was her good night. It rang in his ears as he walked home under the holy starlight like the silver chime of Christmas bells. "A glad new year! A glad new year!" Ah, but he was happy! All the dreams and plans of his youth seemed bursting into perfect flower. Success had crowned his long years of study; he had entered honorably the most sacred of all professions, and God was prospering him, as He ever prospers those whose hearts are in His service. He was sole inheritor of his ancestral home with all its appointments of comfort and elegance. And now the love of his manhood, so sanctified with sorrow and strengthened with patience, was about to be satisfied with its perfect reward. Too happy to sleep he watched from his couch the bright midnight stars with brighter eyes, dreaming, planning, hoping, until the dawn flushed the eastern sky and the shadows of night fled, even as they were fleeing from his darkened past in the rosy light of his dawning future. The same Christmas night, far out on the Atlantic, a sailor, travelworn and browned with Afric suns, kept his lonely night watch on deck, guiding the course of his ship as she sailed steadily to the west. He had known imprisonment and hardship and slavery in a strange land. Sick and alone, he had been left to die on the miasmatic banks of the sluggish Nile, and reported dead to all whom he loved. Carried away into captivity, the desert had been his home and the madness-it was death itself-not to hope. How different was this sad-eyed, sunbrowned man from the Robert Ashley who had won Elinor Starr's first love Then he was the brilliant young lawyer, the leader of his social circle and the admired of hosts of friends. High-souled, generous, and full of the enthusiasm of youth, he had been her ideal of all that was heroic and chivalrous, and her heart had bowed to his lordship with glad and grateful devotion. The two brothers had been for many years alone in the world. Early orphaned, Elinor's father had been the guardian of their youth. Wisely had he managed their large patrimony, renting their estates and giving them a home in his own family. As far as possible he had made up to them their great loss. He had given them the most liberal general culture and the most careful training in their chosen professions. Though Raymond was his favorite, he had sanctioned his daughter's betrothal to Robert; and as she was still young, and the wealthy lawyer had no need to hasten the brilliant career already opening before him, he had warmly seconded his desire of a journey through Europe and the East ere he should settle the plans of his after life. It had been the sorrow of his age that he thus unconsciously sent him to his death; while Raymond, five years his junior, still at school when he went away, who remembered his bright, fearless, warm-hearted brother as the hero of his own quiet and thoughtful boyhood, had mourned for him with love and sorrow passing that of a brother, and second only to hers whose young life was made des olate by his terrible loss. Ah, how he was mourned in that home, how deep and how long was the shadow that had rested over their hearts, Robert Ashley, standing at midnight on the deck of his homeward bound ship, could not know, nor could all the after years make him to understand. The old year was dying; and his departing hours had one glad and impatient watcher. Raymond Ashley stood in the library of his own home, ready for his new year, only waiting for the old to die. He had brightened the old home for the coming of his bride, with all its elegance it seemed still how unworthy of her!-her who would soon be listening for his footstep, whom the morrow would make his own. He looked around upon his world of books, his own and Robert's and his father's, filling the alcoves of the lofty room; at their portraits smiling down upon him from the wall. He had been happy here; but how would her constant presence heighten and brighten it all! He bowed his head in humiliation and gratitude. "I had not believed I could be so full of joy," he murmured. "God forgive me if I wrong my brave Robert's memory; but his boundless happiness cannot be less because we are happy here." A servant appeared at the door. "A gentleman waits below, Mr. Raymond." “Show him up, John.” "I beg your pardon," said Mr. Starr, who had not seen until he heard the guest. "I did not observe,-What! Raymond, who is this! Great Heaven, it is not possible!" and the old man fairly staggered as Robert, pale now but smiling, held out his hand. "It is possible and true, my dear old friend," he said, calmly. It is Robert, not dead, but three years a slave in the wilds of Africa. I will tell you about all that by-and-by. Now I wish to know about Raymond." "It is nothing, Robert, only a mistake of Mr. Starr's. There is nothing you need to know." The stern will could not quite keep "He wouldn't come up sir, but sent his down the pleading, excited tone. card." Raymond took the card carelessly and glanced at it. The same old handwriting, its own identification, had traced across it "One has come back to you from the dead. May I come up? Robert Ashley." As Minerva's soldiers sprang full armed from the ground, so the old brotherly love surged up from that riven tomb in his heart. Never was warmer welcome than met Robert Ashley on the threshold of his home. If the hot blood that flushed his cheek flowed back and stood still in his veins, Robert divined it not. The iron will was over the throbbing heart, and the love that lays down its life for its friend was already triumphant. For an hour they talked in rapid, almost incoherent words over the strange story. Robert told it briefly-hastened over his ter Robert heard him not. "Tell me, Mr. Starr." It was not so much a petition as a command, in whose low tones were centered life or death. "It is all right, Robert,-don't, Mr. Starr,' and with a voice of agony Raymond sprang forward as if with his own person he would intervene between Robert and the dreadful truth. Nay, The old man waved him back. "6 Raymond, the truth always, and now is the time for it to be known. Robert, they were to have been married to-morrow, Raymond and Elinor. It is long since we thought you dead. He loved her, you can understand how, Robert, and I was glad to have it so. Now boys, God help you both!" and the strong voice trembled and broke. "God help you, for only He can." and turned away. in the desert!" But Raymond laid his hand on his brother's arm and looked in his eyes with calm, saintly, almost radiant face. "No, Robert, bless God for your coming; she has never loved me as she loved you. She has loved me but for your sake; and henceforth I will love her only as I love the angels of light. You must go to her to-night; you must marry her to-morrow, and God bless you both!" A dead silence followed. Robert groaned | bridal. The few cards that had been sent “Would God I had died for the first wedding answered with their common initials as well for the second, while special messengers were sent to Robert's old friends to explain, and swell by scores their invitations. The very surprise of the everarriving throng but added to the joy of the occasion. The worn look fell away from Robert's proud, handsome face, and Elinor's cheeks wore all the roses of her early youth. But gayest of the gay was Raymond, the life and soul of the company. The young man who had been appointed as groomsman gave place to him, much to the delight of the gay bridesmaid, who had never dreamed before how brilliant and fascinating the pale young minister could be. Many were the toasts and gratulations that followed the bridal banquet, but none so whole-souled as the last, when Raymond rose and said, "I give you as a parting sentiment the glad New Year!'" My boys, let me arrange for you," said the father gently. 'I will go home first and prepare my daughter for this great news. You come afterwards-both of you. Elinor's own heart can alone decide this matter." Was the solid ground indeed beneath Raymond's feet as the two brothers walked silently through the old familiar streets? He knew not; he felt nothing save the two prayers he kept at his heart, that he might be strong and that they might be happy. In the wide Christmas-wreathed parlors Elinor met them, pale, trembling, struggling to be calm. But one look at Robert's warm face, one touch of his warm hands melted it all away, and she lay on his breast sobbing with uncontrollable emotion. Long and silently she wept until at last grown quiet and still, she turned away from him and gave her hands to Raymond. "Dear Raymond," she said, "I cannot break your heart!" But he knew his fate long before this. He smiled as he took her hand and laid it in his brother's. "It would break my heart if you were to marry me now," he said. "I am too happy for Robert to be very sorry for myself." She raised her large, surprised eyes to his face. Happy Elinor! how could she understand? "God will bless you for this," she said softly. "Sometime you will know what such love is." Then she touched her lips to his forehead and he went away, leaving the long parted to their strange and new found joy. And only Heaven and his own heart knew what intervened, before his cheery tone welcomed his returning brother with a hearty "Rob, old fellow, indeed it shall be a glad new year!" Never New Year's morn rose for a merrier The carriages rolled to the door; for the short bridal tour that Raymond had planned was still to be taken. The bride's foot was on the step when a bit of ice caused it to slip. Raymond sprang to her assistance,and saved her fall; but his own foot tripped in the carpet that was laid to the street and by the springing of the horses, he was drawn under their fiery hoofs. A rear and plunge and shout and he was drawn out and borne back over the rich carpet and into the house and up to his own old room mortally hurt. The gay company, awed and sober now, stole quietly away; and only Robert and Elinor, the father and the surgeon, and one or two dear friends stood by his unconscious couch. Everything was done and nothing availed. Death was coming and that quickly. "Will he never wake?" was Elinor's agonized whisper. "It is quite likely, but uncertain,” the surgeon sadly replied. Even now there came a gasp or two and the large blue eyes opened and were fixed on Robert's face as he stood bending over him. "This is hard, Raymond," he said in a voice of anguish. |