sight from the realms of imagination, whose fires had been fed by oft-repeated family legend. So far off seemed the date of the legend, that I felt myself in the presence of one who had come down from a remote age. It is a long way to look back to a mother's childhood. And when we are only eighteen it seems more dim and distant than it will after we have been over some of those later years, and learned how much faster they fly than do the years of our childhood and youth. When my mother was a little girl, Mr. Stacy had stopped at her father's house, and taken her in his arms, as we all so well love to take and caress little children. This was the legend; and this was the good priest who had blessed my mother in her child hood! Where had Time hidden his footprints? But time has made indelible traces since then, and Nathaniel Stacy, ninety years old, is dead. Verily, one of the saints of our denomination has left her ranks. Little known perhaps in New England, he was the Ballou of New York and Pennsylvania. He planted the faith in new lands, and lived to see it spring up and bear fruit. Not long after this pleasant meeting which gave me the blessed memory of a first vision of Mr. Stacy, he was a guest at my house, and preached at our church in Girard. As a preacher he was remarkable for clearness of statement, and a certain ring to his voice, which carried that statement to the hearers' understar ding. His sermons were specimens of careful reasoning, thickly interspersed with scriptural texts explanatory of the subject under consideration. He left the impression of a man rooted and grounded in the faith, and thoroughly consecrated to the work of teaching that faith to others. It was easy to see how, in his vigorous manhood, he had been a most effective debater and preacher. At Mr. Patterson's ordination he gave the charge, in words fitly chosen, and a manner whose devout earnestness can never be forgotten. Comong East soon afterwards, we saw his face no more, but he has lived in one of the faithful few who memory as deserves all honor from tho denomination his THE UNCUT LEAVES. BY MRS. E. A. B. LATHROP. The same bright room, yes, just the same, Our family reunion passed In mirth and wit and song. Bright glows the anthracite, the same Wide open the piano stands, And 'neath the shaded light Ah, not the same! we cheat ourselves In vain; where is her name, As months and years it came? These uncut leaves, too; trite the hint, There stands his empty chair. Who sit'st in dreary widowhood, His daughter, too, these leaves suggest, Thus far hath led her on. So changed! though scattered far and wide Our broken household band, One touch could wake the youthful thrill, Our elder brother's hand. His passing changes everything, And yet here is no gloom; "A skeleton's in every home," Bless God, not uncut are the leaves Of prophecy's bright book. labors have been so effective in building We pass beyond this room to-night up. And into glory look. -- JUSTICE VERSUS MERCY. THE BY EMMA GARRISON JONES. HE two children looked back, through fast-falling tears, as the carriage bore them rapidly away, leaving their old home behind in the darkening twilight. A pleasant home it was; an old-fashioned, country farm-house, with cool, clean rooms, and rosewreathed porches, and spacious fire-places, wherein the great logs blazed and crackled through the long winter nights; spreading its wing-like roof beneath the dreamy, southern sky, in the midst of balmy orehards and opulent grain fields; with a green wall of hills on one side and a glitter of running waters on the other. A home, full to overflowing with all-forbearing love and tender indulgence, a home just suited to happyhearted, beauty-loving childhood. But all this was over now,-its owners, the fiery-souled little Doctor and the meek, blueeyed woman, who had been his true and tender wife for nearly a score of years, had gone to their last, long sleep beneath the widespreading chestnut tree, through whose yellow boughs the waning sunbeams glancing; and these, their two children, alone and orphaned, and rudely thrust out from the old home Lest, were on their way to their uncle's home, up amid the granite hills of New England. were On his death-bed, the little Doctor pondered the matter over. This brother was the sole relative he had on earth; he could remember the time when they were merry boys together, and loved each other with a kindly affection. Since those days, their paths had widely diverged, and they had seldom seen each other's faces, but all the old boyish love still lived in his own heart; and judging his brother's soul by his own, which, with all its impulsive heat and fire, was as true as Heaven, and as tender as God's own mercy, he argued thus: "Surely Theophilus will do the right thing by my little ones! Better than any one else, no doubt, for isn't he brother? I'd like to see him and talk the thing over, but there's not time." Then, the mortal agony growing sharper, he called little Rob to his bedside. my Rob, I'm going, but your uncle will be good to you, and you must be good to little Mag." Rob made no answer, save by his passionate weeping; and he wept just such tears now, as his uncle's carriage whirled down the poplar-shaded avenue, bearing him away, like the hand of a relentless fate, from the old home he held so dear, and the graves where his parents lay sleeping. But little Mag only hid her blue eyes and let her tears flow silently. A Men's homes, as a general thing, are indications of their characters, and women's, too, for that matter; at any rate, Theophilus Mowbray's home was indicative of his. gambrel-roofed cottage, standing on one of the cleanest streets of a wondrously clean village; the gravel walks broad and smooth, everything trim and orderly to a fault, but no superfluous beauty, no breath of blossoms, no trailing vines and tender green, nothing but stern, unvarying utility. The very elms stood stiffly upright, with no rustling music amid their branches; the pigeons in their boxes seemed afraid to chirp or flutter, and the bees, which inhabited the long row of hives, kept decorously indoors, intent solely upon making their honey. Within doors, the same all-prevailing aspect of order and cleanliness reigned supreme. One turned from the stately "keeping-room," with its solemn rows of chairs and spotless glass and mahogany, with a feeling of chilly homesickness, and the snowy bed-chambers and the well-kept kitchen awoke a vague, wistful longing for a glimpse of some little humanlike untidiness or disorder. But it was nowhere to be found. Order was the supreme ruler and regulater of Theophilus Mowbray's home as it was of his life; and two finer things do not exist than an orderly household and a well-ordered life. Yet,-well, the amount of the matter is, that certain persons invest their homes and indeed their very garments, with a kind of individuality, which makes the difference. Into this prim, unadorned cottage, came our two little friends, Rob and Mag, from the great, hospitable, old farm-house in the genial South. Of course the change was great,-it chilled their young hearts as no Arctic winter could have done. Mag settled down into silent endurance, but Rob burst out into passionate protest. He would not, could not stand it—he meant to run off, and go back to his old home. His uncle listened quietly. "You're a wayward lad, I perceive," he remarked in his calm, icy tones, "you must have rigid discipline." And then and there the discipline began. Cruel and unrelenting, yet it failed to break the boy's fiery spirit, or to make him a whit less restive and wayward. Indeed, as is not unfrequently the case, the strong, chafing bit always in his mouth, acted upon him at last like a stinging goad, urging him on into a mad, wild gallop, when a few low-spoken remonstrances, a gentle curb now and then, or mayhap a loving caress, would have brought him down to the soberest kind of trot. Five years or more after the evening on which our little history opens, we find him acting as a clerk in the village warehouse for the firm of Hazletine & Mowbray; this Mowbray, junior partner in the concern, being his own uncle. The employment was thoroughly distateful to Rob; he hated the noise and heat of the low rooms, and the dull monotony of endless accounts and en trees. Indeed he would have refused his uncle's offer flatly and risked open rebellion, but for one consideration. Mag was out as a governess, in obedience to her uncle's com mand, although her father's little legacy was amply sufficient to support her. She had a good mind and must make use of it, her uncle said, and save her ready funds for a rainy day. Rob was terribly indignant, but his uncle was unyielding, and for Mag's sake he abandoned his long-cherished project of going to sea, and accepted the post his uncle offered him. As soon as he had saved enough from his limited salary, he would steal Mag off, and they would go far away in a great ship, to some far-off happy country, where he could live and do as he pleased. And byand-by, when he got rich, he would return and buy back the old farm-house and live and die there as his father had done. These were the boy's dreams; foolish ones, truly, yet they served to brighten many a weary hour in the dusty warehouse. For a time he went on bravely, hiding away every spare cent, and writing to Mag at every week's end to report his progress. The consummation of his hopes was not so very far off; and as the day of fruition drew nearer, another hope sprang up in his bosom, - a new interest, dearer and tenderer even than his love for Mag. It was his custom to spend almost every sabbath evening at the parsonage in company with the minister, old Mr. Cathcart, and his daughter Barbara. The old man had been a college chum with Rob's father and took a tender interest in the lad; so he made it a point to coax him home with him and Barbara when the Sabbath services were over. These weekly visits did Rob a great deal of good; the old man's kindly advice and Barbara's winning face as they sat on the little porch under the fragrant shadow of the jasmine branches, always seemed to call into action the best and noblest aspirations of his nature, and as he sauntered back to his uncle's through the silent streets he made many a lofty resolve that would have been really heroic if he had only been strong enough to have kept it. But poor Rob, with all his flashing, fiery impulse and quick sense of honor, was, like many of the rest of us, easily led into temptation. And this little village, with all its cleanliness and pretension, was still something of a whited sepulchre. It had its drinking-shops and gambling-cells as well as its churches and schoolhouses, and, we regret to say, that before the suns of twenty summers had bronzed his young brow, poor Rob was as familiar with the former as the latter. He threw dice and drank wine and did worse at times, perhaps, not from an inate love of vice, but as an outlet to an over-excitable nature. Cut off from all home love and home influences, and separated from Mag, his genial nature sought companionship wherever it could be had. His uncle, becoming acquainted with these misdemeanors, taunted him in the most bitter and galling manner, threatening to turn him out of the warehouse and to expose his weakness and folly to the whole village. Rob grew desperate, demanded his part of his father's legacy and avowed his determination to go to sea. His uncle laughed in his face. After this, matters grew worse and worse. Rob became silent and morose, and spent all his evenings from home; and after a time, he failed to make his appearance at church, or to pay his usual sabbath evening visit to the parsonage. The old minister shook his head sadly. "Poor lad, poor lad," he said. "Mowbray's not the man to deal with a soul like his. I'm afraid he'll come to harm yet, Barbara." Barbara made no answer, but her brown eyes filled with tears. A spring morning came; over all the green New England hills the delicate May flowers bloomed, and in every nook and cranny were tender mosses and tufts of violets. The sunshine streamed through the broad windows, flooding the low rooms of the warehouse with streams of golden light. Before his desk sat Rob, his hair thrown back in disorder, his face white and anxious. Poor Rob! the crisis of his life had come! Out upon the bay, riding proudly at anchor in the fresh breeze, was a stately vessel, men and women walking its deck and awaiting the signal of its departure. The boy glanced towards it, with parted lips and panting breath and then he clutched at the yellow envelope lying on the desk before him. It contained a sum of money accruing to his uncle from the firm which had just been entrusted to his hands to be deposited in the bank. Not a large sum, but enough to free him of debt and dishonor, and carry him far away, where he could begin a new life and make a man of himself. His downward course had been swift for the last month or two, and now a gambling debt hung over him; a debt of honor the silly boy termed it. But this money would free him again, and once away, he would begin a new life and be a man. What if it did belong to his uncle; he held his father's legacy in trust, and he could easily write back and tell him to take that in payment. It would only be exchange after all, and that was no robbery. Just then the big guns began to signal the vessel's departure, and snatching up the envelope, he thrust it into his bosom and rushed out. But the boy shook off his grasp and rushed on; but after a step or two he paused, looking back. 66 Good-bye sir," he said, his voice husky and tremulous, "tell Barbara - tell her - 1 mean to be a man yet." The crowd closed in, shutting out both face and voice, and the old minister stood in the morning sunlight, shaking his grey locks and murmuring, "Poor Rob, poor Rob," like one bewildered. Half an hour later, Rob stood on the deck of the outward-bound vessel, gazing upon the fast-receding shores of his native land; not joyous, exultant however over his freedom, but pale, haggard, fully conscious at last of the nature of the crime he had committed; only one thought burning in his soul. What would his father think, how would he look down from heaven on his son? "Do what you may, Rob, always keep your soul clear of dishonesty!” He could hear the words just as his father had spoken them a hundred times. And now, he was a common rogue, and his father was looking down from heaven upon him. The heaven, where his dead father dwelt, was terribly real to this poor child. He dare not even lift his eyes to the over-arching sky for fear of meeting his grieved and angered face. But he looked down into the blue, rippling waters, longing to end all his troubles by one frantic plunge. But that would not free his soul; there was but one way, and hard as it was to his proud spirit, slowly and steadily he come to his determination. When the vessel put in at New York Harbor, he was one of the first to leap ashore, and the very next out-going train bore him back to the village. Reaching there, he found every thing in commotion; and a couple of detectives, seeing him leave the cars, followed on his track to his uncle's house. Mr. Just beyond the pier some one grasped his Mowbray chanced to open his front door just arm. 66 as Rob came up the walk. For an instant Why Robbie, is it you, lad? I haven't he stood dumb with amazement. seen you in an age." Rob looked up, breathless, almost fainting, and met the kind, solicitous face of the old minister. "We've been looking for you, Barbara and I," he went on. "You mustn't forsake us altogether, Rob.” "I have come back, sir," Rob faltered out, coming up to where he stood. 66 So I perceive, sir; and my money, have you brought that?" "Yes, sir," drawing the yellow envelope from his bosom, "all but a few dollars, and I'll soon replace them. I've done wrong, uncle, but forgive, me this time-'tis the last." Mr. Mowbray received the yellow envelope and glanced in at the folded notes with evident satisfaction, but his stern face hardened as he replied, "I'm glad you seem conscious of your crime, sir, but the law must take its course. I shall not interfere. You deserve to be punished," making a sign to one of the detectives as he spoke. Rob flushed hotly and turned away; and the detective approaching laid his hand on his shoulder. He walked on beside him for a step or two, and then turned back. "Uncle," he said, his lips quivering like a woman's, "the devil tempted me; forgive me, for my father's sake and Mag's." 64 No, sir, you deserve to be punished - it is just." A hard, flashing light blazed up in the boy's eyes, and he followed the detective in dogged silence to his trial and from thence to prison. Mag, working away at her arduous duties, was duly informed of her brother's crime and imprisonment, in an elaborate letter from her uncle, and the next train found her on her way to the village. She reached it towards the close of a chill, rainy afternoon, and made her way direct to her uncle's house. He met her in the doorway with extended hand. "I expected you, niece; come in and be seated. But please shake your cloak and scrape your feet first." Mag was a girl of wonderful forbearance in her quiet way, so she obeyed with meek grace, and then following him into the vaultlike sitting room, seated herself on the edge of a glazed chair and listened with patient endurance to a sickening detail of her brother's disgrace. When her uncle had finished, she went down on her kness before him. "O, uncle,” she entreated with streaming tears, "this is his first sin - he was tempted O, forgive him he is nothing but a boy. If you let the case go into court, he will be convicted and publicly disgraced - for my father's sake save him, uncle." "He has sinned and deserves to be punished it is just — I shall not interfere." "And father, Mag?" he questioned sol-. emnly. "He knows too, Rob, with the knowledge of Heaven." "But the disgrace—and I've brought it on you too, Mag. O, if I were dead. Uncle might have saved me!" The short hour soon wore away and poor Mag was forced to leave her brother and go out into the dismal rain. A short space beyond the prison she paused irresolute. The night was fast closing in and the rain pouring down. Return to her uncle's she would not and she was too sensitive to force herself upon any of her acquaintances. Where should she go? She asked herself the question, looking wistfully down the rainy street. At that instant some one plucked her sleeve, and turning she stood face to face with a young girl. Throwing back the scarlet shawl that covered her head, she revealed her face, the sweetest face, Mag thought, that ever human eyes rested on. She had just left the presence of relentless justice and this girl seemed the living embodiment of God's own mercy. "I saw you coming out," she said, " and I wanted to ask how he is-how he bears up? Mag made no answer, but she put out both her hands and the girl clasped them. "I know you," she went on, her tender eyes filling with tears, "you are his sister. I am Barbara, the old minister's daughter. We want to help him- father and I. Let me go with you, please, and I'll tell you all." "I've no place to go," replied Mag drearily, still grasping the girl's hands as if they were her last hope. |