"Was it one of the twinkle-twinkle kind, or one of the stand-still kind?" asked Toddie.

"I don't know," said Mrs. Burton, after a moment's reflection. "Why do you ask?"

"'Cauzh," said Toddie, "I know what 'twazh there for, an' it ought to have twinkled, 'cauzh twinkley star bobs open and shut that way 'cauzh they're laughin' and can't keep still, an' I know I'd have laughed if I'd been a star an' was goin' to make a lot of folks so awful happy. G'won."

"Then," said Mrs. Burton, looking alternately and frequently at the two accounts of the Advent, "they suddenly saw an angel, and the shepherds were afraid."

"Should fink they would be," said Toddie. "Everybody gets afraid when they see good people around. I 'spec' they thought the angel would say 'don't!' in about a minute."

"But the angel told them not to be afraid," said Mrs. Burton, "for he had come to bring good news. There was to be a dear little baby born at Bethlehem, and He would make everybody happy."

"Wouldn't it be nice if that angel would come an' do it all over again?" said Budge. "Only he ought to pick out little boys instead of sheep fellows. I wouldn't be afraid of an angel."

"Neiver would I," said Toddie, "but I dzust go round behind him an' see how his wings was fastened on."

"Then a great many other angels came," said Mrs. Burton, "and they all sang and sang together. The poor shepherds didn't know what to make of it, but after the singing was over, they all started for Bethlehem, to see that wonderful baby."

"Just like the other day we went to see the sister-baby."

"Yes," said Mrs. Burton; but instead of finding Him in a pleasant home and a nice room, with careful friends and nurses around Him, He was in a manger out in a stable."

"That was 'cause he was so smart that He could do just what He wanted to, an' be just where he liked," said Budge, "an' He was a little boy, an' little boys always like stables better than houses—I wish I could live in a stable always an' for ever."

"So do I," said Toddie, "an' sleep in mangers, 'cauzh then the horses would kick anybody that made me put on clean clothezh when I didn't want to. They gaveded him presentsh, didn't they?"

"Yes," said Mrs. Burton; "gold, frankincense, and myrrh."

"Why didn't they give him rattles and squealey-balls, like folks did budder Phillie when he was a baby," asked Toddie.

"Because, Toddie," said Mrs. Burton, glad of an opportunity to get the sentiment of the story into her own hands, from which it had departed very early in the course of the lesson—"because He was no common baby, like other children. He was the Lord."

"What! The Lord once a dear little baby?" exclaimed Toddie.

"Yes," replied Mrs. Burton, shuddering to realize that Toddie had not before been taught of the nature of the Holy Trinity.

"An' played around like uvver little boysh?" continued Toddie.

"I—I—suppose so," said Mrs. Burton, fearing lest in trying to instill reverence into her nephews, she herself might prove irreverent.

"Did somebody say 'Don't' at Him every time he did anyfing?" continued Toddie.

"N—n—n—o! I imagine not," said Mrs. Burton, "because he was always good."

"That don't make any diffwelence," said Toddie. "The better a little boy triesh to be, the more folks say 'Don't' to him. So I guesh nobody had any time to say anyfing elsh at all to Jesus."

"What did He do next?" asked Budge, as deeply interested as if he had not heard the same story many times before.

"He grew strong in body and spirit," said Mrs. Burton, "and everybody loved Him; but before He had time to do all that, an angel came and frightened His papa in a dream, and told him that the king of that country would kill little Jesus if he could find Him. So Joseph, the papa of Jesus, and Mary, His mamma, got up in the middle of the night, and started off to Egypt."

"Seems to me that Egypt was 'bout as bad in those days as Europe is now," remarked Budge. "Whenever papa tells about anybody that nobody can find, he says, 'Gone to Europe, I s'pose.' What did they find when they got there?"

"I don't know," said Mrs. Burton, musing. "I suppose the papa worked hard for money to buy good food and comfortable resting-places for his wife and baby; and I suppose the mamma walked about the fields, and picked pretty flowers for her baby to play with; and I suppose the baby cooed when His mamma gave them to Him, and laughed and danced and played, and then got tired, and came and hid His little face in His mamma's lap, and was taken into her arms and held ever so tight, and fell asleep, and that His mother looked into His face as if she would look through it, while she tried to find out what her baby would be and do when He grew up, and whether He would be taken away from her, while it seemed as if she couldn't live at all without having Him very closely pressed to her breast and—"

Mrs. Burton's voice grew a little shaky, and, finally, failed her entirely. Budge came in front of her, scrutinized her intently, but with great sympathy, also, and, finally, leaned his elbows on her knees, dropped his face into his own hands, looked up into her face, and remarked:

"Why, Aunt Alice, she was just like my mamma, wasn't she? An' I think you are just like both of 'em!"

Mrs. Burton took Budge hastily into her arms, covered his face with kisses, and totally destroyed another chance of explaining the difference between the earthly and the heavenly to her pupils, while Toddie eyed the couple with evident disfavor, and remarked:

"I fink 'twould be nicer if you'd see if dinner was bein' got ready, instead of stoppin' tellin' stories an' huggin' Budge. My tummuk's all gotted little again."

Mrs. Burton came back to the world of to-day from that of history, though not without a sigh, while the dog Jerry, who had divined the peaceful nature of the occasion so far as to feel justified in reclining beneath his mistress's chair, now contracted himself into the smallest possible space, slunk out of the doorway, and took a lively quickstep in the direction of the shrubbery. Toddie had seen him, however, and told the news to Budge, and both boys were soon in pursuit; noticing which the dog Jerry speedily betook himself to that distant retirement which the dog who has experience in small boys knows so well how to discover and maintain.

As the morning wore on, the boys grew restless, fought, drummed on the piano, snarled when that instrument was closed, meddled with everything that was within reach, and finally grew so troublesome that their aunt soon felt that to lose was cheaper than to save, so she left the house to the children, and sought the side of the lounge upon which her afflicted husband reclined. The divining sense of childhood soon found her out, however, and Budge remarked:

"Aunt Alice, if you're going to church, seems to me it's time you was getting ready."

"I can't go to church, Budge," sighed Mrs. Burton. "If I do, you boys will only turn the whole house upside down, and drive your poor uncle nearly crazy."

"No, we won't," said Budge. "You don't know what nice nurses we can be to sick people. Papa says nobody can even imagine how well we can take care of anybody until they see us do it. If you don't believe it, just leave us with Uncle Harry, an' stay home from church an' peek through the key-hole."

"Go on, Allie," said Mr. Burton. "If you want to go to church, don't be afraid to leave me. I think you should go—after your experience of this morning. I shouldn't think your mind could be at peace until you had joined your voice with that of the great congregation, and acknowledged yourself to be a miserable sinner."

Mrs. Burton winced, but nevertheless retired, and soon appeared dressed for church, kissed her husband and her nephews, gave many last instructions, and departed. Budge followed her with his eye until she had stepped from the piazza, and then remarked, with a sigh of relief:

"Now I guess we'll have what papa calls a good, old-fashioned time—we've got rid of her."

"Budge!" exclaimed Mr. Burton, sternly, and springing to his feet, "do you know who you are talking about? Don't you know that your Aunt Alice is my wife, and that she has saved you from many a scolding, done you many a favor, and been your best friend?"

"Oh, yes," said Budge, with at least a dozen inflections on each word, "but ev'ry day friends an' Sunday friends are kind o' different; don't you think so? She can't make whistles, or catch bull-frogs, or carry both of us up the mountain on her shoulders, or sing 'Roll, Jordan.'"

"And do you expect me to do all these things to-day?" asked Mr. Burton.

"N—n—no," said Budge, "unless you should get well an' feel just like it; but we'd like to be with somebody who could do 'em if he wanted to. We like ladies that's all ladies, but then we like men that's all men, too. Aunt Alice is a good deal like an angel, I think, and you—you ain't. An' we don't want to be with angels all the time until we're angels ourselves."

Mr. Burton turned over suddenly and contemplated the back of the lounge at this honest avowal of one of humanity's prominent weaknesses, while Budge continued:

"We don't want you to get to be an angel, so what I want to know is, how to make you well. Don't you think if I borrowed papa's horse and carriage an' took you ridin' you'd feel better? I know he'd lend 'em to me if I told him you were goin' to drive."

"And if you said you were going with me to take care of me?" suggested Mr. Burton.

"Y—e—es," said Budge, as hesitatingly as if such an idea had never occurred to him. "An' don't you think that up to the top of the Hawksnest Rock an' out to Passaic Falls would be the nicest places for a sick man to go? When you got tired of ridin' you could stop the carriage an' cut us a cane, or make us whistles, or find us pfingster apples (the seed-balls of the wild azalea), or even send us in swimming in a brook somewhere if you got tired of us."

"H'm!" grunted Mr. Burton.

"An' you might take fings to eat wif you," suggested Toddie, "an' when you got real tired and felt bad, you might stop and have a little picnic. I fink that would be dzust the fing for a man wif the toothache. And we could help you lotsh."

"I'll see how I feel after dinner," said Mr. Burton. "But what are you going to do for me between now and then, to make me feel better?"

"We tell you storiezh," said Toddie. "Them's what sick folks alwayzh likesh."

"Very well," said Mr. Burton. "Begin right away."

"Aw wight," said Toddie. "Do you want a sad story or a d'zolly one?"

"Anything," said Mr. Burton. "Men with the toothache can stand nearly anything. Don't draw on your imagination too hard."

"Don't never draw on madzinasuns," said Toddie; "I only draws on slatesh."

"Never mind; give us the story."

"Well," said Toddie, seating himself in a rocking-chair, and fixing his eyes on the ceiling, "guesh I'll tell about AbrahammynIsaac. Onesh the Lord told a man named Abraham to go up the mountain an' chop his little boy's froat open an' burn him up on a naltar. So Abraham started to go to do it. An' he made his little boy Isaac, that he was going to chop and burn up carry the kindlin' wood he was goin' to set him a-fire wiz. An' I want to know if you fink that wazh very nysh of him?"

"Well,—no," said Mr. Burton.

"Tell you what," said Budge, "you don't ever catch me carryin' sticks up the mountain, even if my papa wants me to."

"When they got up there," said Toddie, "Abraham made a naltar an' put little Ikey on it, an' took a knife an' was goin' to chop his froat open, when a andzel came out of hebben an' said: 'Stop a-doin' that.' So Abraham stopped, an' Ikey skooted; an' Abraham saw a sheep caught in the bushes, an' he caught him an' killed him. He wasn't goin' to climb way up a mountain to kill somebody an' not have his knife bluggy a bit. An' he burned the sheep up. An' then he went home again."

"I'll bet you Isaac's mamma never knew what his papa wanted to do with him," said Budge, "or she'd never let her little boy go away in the mornin'. Do you want to bet?"

"N—no, not on Sunday, I guess," said Mr. Burton. "Now, suppose you little boys go out of doors and play for a while, while uncle tries to get a nap."

The boys accepted the suggestion and disappeared. Half an hour later, as Mrs. Burton was walking home from church under escort of old General Porcupine, and enduring with saintly fortitude the general's compliments upon her management of the children, there came screams of fear and anguish from the general's own grounds, which the couple were passing.

"Who can that be?" exclaimed the general, his short hairs bristling like the quills of his titular godfather. "We have no children."

"I—think I know the voices," gasped Mrs. Burton, turning pale.

"Bless my soul!" exclaimed the general, with an accent which showed that he was wishing the reverse of blessings upon souls less needy than his own. "You don't mean—"

"Oh, I do!" said Mrs. Burton, wringing her hands. "Do hurry!"

The general puffed and snorted up his gravel walk and toward the shrubbery, behind which was a fish-pond, from which direction the sound came. Mrs. Burton followed, in time to see her nephew Budge help his brother out of the pond, while the general tugged at a large crawfish which had fastened its claw upon Toddie's finger. The fish was game, but, with a mighty pull from the general, and a superhuman shriek from Toddie, the fish's claw and body parted company, and the general, still holding the latter tightly, staggered backward, and himself fell into the pond.

"Ow—ow—ow!" howled Toddie, clasping the skirt of his aunt's mauve silk in a ruinous embrace, while the general floundered and snorted like a whale in dying agonies, and Budge laughed as merrily as if the whole scene had been provided especially for his entertainment. Mrs. Burton hurried her nephews away, forgetting, in her mortification, to thank the general for his service, and placing a hand over Toddie's mouth.

"It hurts," mumbled Toddie.

"What did you touch the fish at all for?" asked Mrs. Burton.

"It was a little baby-lobster," sobbed Toddie; "an' I loves little babies—all kinds of 'em—an' I wanted to pet him. An' then I wanted to grop him."

"Why didn't you do it, then?" demanded the lady.

"'Cauze he wouldn't grop," said Toddie; "he isn't all gropped yet."

True enough, the claw of the fish still hung at Toddie's finger, and Mrs. Burton spoiled a pair of four-button kids in detaching it, while Budge continued to laugh. At length, however, mirth gave place to brotherly love, and Budge tenderly remarked:

"Toddie, dear, don't you love Brother Budge?"

"Yesh," sobbed Toddie.

"Then you ought to be happy," said Budge, "for you've made him awful happy. If the fish hadn't caught you, the general couldn't have pulled him off, an' then he wouldn't have tumbled into the pond, an' oh, my!—didn't he splash bully!"

"Then you's got to be bited with a fiss," said Toddie, "an' make him tumble in again, for me to laugh 'bout."

"You're two naughty boys," said Mrs. Burton. "Is this the way you take care of your sick uncle?"

"Did take care of him," exclaimed Toddie; "told him a lovely Bible story, an' you didn't, an' he wouldn't have had no Sunday at all if I hadn't done it. An' we's goin' to take him widin' this afternoon."

Mrs. Burton hurried home, but it seemed to her that she had never met so many inquiring acquaintances during so short a walk. Arrived at last, she ordered her nephews to their room, and flung herself in tears beside her husband, murmuring:

"Henry!"

And Mr. Burton, having viewed the ruined dress with the eye of experience, uttered the single word:

"Boys!"

"What am I to do with them?" asked the unhappy woman.

Mr. Burton was an affectionate husband. He adored womankind, and sincerely bemoaned its special grievances; but he did not resist the temptation to recall his wife's announcement of five days before, so he whispered:

"Train them."

Mrs. Burton's humiliation by her own lips was postponed by a heavy footfall, which, by turning her face, she discovered was that of her brother-in-law, Tom Lawrence, who remarked:

"Tender confidences, eh? Well, I'm sorry I intruded. There's nothing like them if you want to be happy. But Helen's pretty well to-day, and dying to have her boys with her, and I'm even worse with a similar longing. You can't spare them, I suppose?"

The peculiar way in which Tom Lawrence's eyes danced as he awaited a reply would, at any other time, have roused all the defiance in Alice Burton's nature; but now, looking at the front of her beautiful dress, she only said:

"Why—I suppose—we might spare them for an hour or two!"

"You poor, dear Spartan," said Tom, with genuine sympathy, "you shall be at peace until their bedtime anyhow."

And Mrs. Burton found occasion to rearrange the bandage on her husband's face so as to whisper in his ear:

"Thank Heaven!"



SAILING UP STREAM.

[The following is quoted, by permission, from Mr. Habberton's popular book, "THE BARTON EXPERIMENT," published by G.P. PUTNAM'S SONS, New York.]

The superintendency of the Mississippi Valley Woolen Mills was a position which exactly suited Fred Macdonald, and it gave him occasion for the expenditure of whatever superfluous energy he found himself possessed of, yet it did not engross his entire attention. The faculty which the busiest of young men have for finding time in which to present themselves, well clothed and unbusiness-like, to at least one young woman, is as remarkable and admirable as it is inexplicable. The evenings which did not find Fred in Parson Wedgewell's parlor were few indeed, and if, when he was with Esther, he did not talk quite as sentimentally as he had done in the earlier days of his engagement, and if he talked business very frequently, the change did not seem distasteful to the lady herself. For the business of which he talked was, in the main, a sort which loving women have for ages recognized as the inevitable, and to which they have subjected themselves with a unanimity which deserves the gratitude of all humanity. Fred talked of a cottage which he might enter without first knocking at the door, and of a partnership which should be unlimited; if he learned, in the course of successive conversations, that even in partnerships of the most extreme order many compromises are absolutely necessary, the lesson was one which improved his character in the ratio in which it abased his pride. The cottage grew as rapidly as the mill, and on his returns from various trips for machinery there came with Fred's freight certain packages which prevented their owner from appearing so completely the absorbed businessman which he flattered himself that he seemed. Then the partnership was formed one evening in Parson Wedgewell's own church, in the presence of a host of witnesses, Fred appearing as self-satisfied and radiant as the gainer in such transactions always does, while Esther's noble face and drooping eyes showed beyond doubt who it was that was the giver.

As the weeks succeeded each other after the wedding, however, no acquaintance of the couple could wonder whether the gainer or the giver was the happier. Fred improved rapidly, as the schoolboy improves; but Esther's graces were already of mature growth, and rejoiced in their opportunity for development. Though she could not have explained how it happened, she could not but notice that maidens regarded her wonderingly, wives contemplated her wistfully, frowns departed and smiles appeared when she approached people who were usually considered prosaic. Yet shadows sometimes stole over her face, when she looked at certain of her old acquaintances, and the cause thereof soon took a development which was anything but pleasing to her husband.

"Fred," said Esther one evening, "it makes me real unhappy sometimes to think of the good wives there are who are not as happy as I am. I think of Mrs. Moshier and Mrs. Crayme, and the only reason that I can see is, their husbands drink."

"I guess you're right, Ettie," said Fred. "They didn't begin their domestic tyranny in advance, as you did—bless you for it."

"But why don't their husbands stop?" asked Esther, too deeply interested in her subject to notice her husband's compliment. "They must see what they're doing, and how cruel it all is."

"They're too far gone to stop; I suppose that's the reason," said Fred. "It hasn't been easy work for me to keep my promise, Ettie, and I'm a young man; Moshier and Crayme are middle-aged men, and liquor is simply necessary to them."

"That dreadful old Bunley wasn't too old to reform, it seems," said Esther. "Fred, I believe one reason is that no one has asked them to stop. See how good Harry Wainwright has been since he found that so many people were interested in him that day!"

"Ye—es," drawled Fred, evidently with a suspicion of what was coming, and trying to change the subject by suddenly burying himself in his memorandum-book. But this ruse did not succeed, for Esther crossed the room to where Fred sat, placed her hands on his shoulders, and a kiss on his forehead, and exclaimed:

"Fred, you're the proper person to reform those two men!"

"Oh, Ettie," groaned Fred, "you're entirely mistaken. Why, they'd laugh right in my face, if they didn't get angry and knock me down. Reformers want to be older men, better men, men like your father, for instance, if people are to listen to them."

"Father says they need to be men who understand the nature of those they are talking to," replied Esther; and you once told me that you understood Moshier and Crayme perfectly."

"But just think of what they are, Ettie," pleaded Fred. "Moshier is a contractor, and Crayme's a steamboat captain; such men never reform, though they always are good fellows. Why, if I were to speak to either of them on the subject, they'd laugh in my face, or curse me. The only way I was able to make peace with them for stopping drinking myself, was to say that I did it to please my wife."

"Did they accept that as sufficient excuse?" asked Esther.

"Yes," said Fred reluctantly, and biting his lips over this slip of his tongue.

"Then you've set them a good example, and I can't believe its effect will be lost," said Esther.

"I sincerely hope it won't," said Fred, very willing to seem a reformer at heart, "nobody would be gladder than I to see those fellows with wives as happy as mine seems to be."

"Then why don't you follow it up, Fred, dear, and make sure of your hopes being realized? You can't imagine how much happier I would be if I could meet those dear women without feeling that I had to hide the joy that's so hard to keep to myself."

The conversation continued with considerable strain to Fred's amiability; but his sophistry was no match for his wife's earnestness, and he was finally compelled to promise that he would make an appeal to Crayme, with whom he had a business engagement, on the arrival of Crayme's boat, the Excellence.

Before the whistles of the steamer were next heard, however, Esther learned something of the sufferings of would-be reformers, and found cause to wonder who was to endure most that Mrs. Crayme should have a sober husband; for Fred was alternately cross, moody, abstracted, and inattentive, and even sullenly remarked at his breakfast-table one morning that he shouldn't be sorry if the Excellence were to blow up, and leave Mrs. Crayme to find her happiness in widowhood. But no such luck befell the lady: the whistle-signals of the Excellence were again heard in the river, and the nature of Fred's business with the captain made it unadvisable for Fred to make an excuse for leaving the boat unvisited.

It did seem to Fred Macdonald as if everything conspired to make his task as hard as it could possibly be. Crayme was already under the influence of more liquor than was necessary to his well-being, and the boat carried as passengers a couple of men, who, though professional gamblers, Crayme found very jolly company when they were not engaged in their business calling. Besides, Captain Crayme was running against time with an opposition boat which had just been put upon the river, and he appreciated the necessity of having the boat's bar well stocked and freely opened to whoever along the river was influential in making or marring the reputation of steamboats. Fred finally got the captain into his own room, however, and made a freight contract so absent-mindedly that the sagacious captain gained an immense advantage over him; then he acted so awkwardly, and looked so pale, that the captain suggested chills, and prescribed brandy. Fred smiled feebly, and replied,

"No, thank you, Sam; brandy's at the bottom of the trouble. I"—here Fred made a tremendous attempt to rally himself—"I want you to swear off, Sam."

The astonishment of Captain Crayme was marked enough to be alarming at first; then the ludicrous feature of Fred's request struck him so forcibly that he burst into a laugh before whose greatness Fred trembled and shrank.

"Well, by thunder!" exclaimed the captain, when he recovered his breath; "if that isn't the best thing I ever heard yet! The idea of a steamboat captain swearing off his whisky! Say, Fred, don't you want me to join the Church? I forgot that you'd married a preacher's daughter, or I wouldn't have been so puzzled over your white face to-day. Sam Crayme brought down to cold water! Wouldn't the boys along the river get up a sweet lot of names for me—the 'Cold-water Captain,' 'Psalm-singing Sammy!' and then, when an editor or any other visitor came aboard, wouldn't I look the thing, hauling out glasses and a pitcher of water! Say, Fred, does your wife let you drink tea and coffee?"

"Sam!" exclaimed Fred, springing to his feet, "if you don't stop slanting at my wife, I'll knock you down."

"Good!" said the captain, without exhibiting any signs of trepidation. "Now you talk like yourself again. I beg your pardon, old fellow; you know I was only joking, but it is too funny. You'll have to take a trip or two with me again, though, and be reformed."

"Not any," said Fred, resuming his chair; "take your wife along, and reform yourself."

"Look here, now, young man," said the captain, "you're cracking on too much steam. Honestly, Fred, I've kept a sharp eye on you for two or three months, and I am right glad you can let whisky alone. I've seen times when I wished I were in your boots; but steamboats can't be run without liquor, however it may be with woolen mills."

"That's all nonsense," said Fred. "You get trade because you run your boat on time, charge fair prices, and deliver your freight in good order. Who gives you business because you drink and treat?"

The captain, being unable to recall any shipper of the class alluded to by Fred, changed his course.

"'Tisn't so much that," said he; "it's a question of reputation. How would I feel to go ashore at Pittsburgh or Louisville or Cincinnati, and refuse to drink with anybody? Why, 'twould ruin me. It's different with you who don't have to meet anybody but religious old farmers. Besides, you've just been married."

"And you've been married for five years," said Fred, with a sudden sense of help at hand. "How do you suppose your wife feels?"

Captain Crayme's jollity subsided a little, but with only a little hesitation he replied:

"Oh! she's used to it; she doesn't mind it."

"You're the only person in town that thinks so, Sam," said Fred.

Captain Crayme got up and paced his little stateroom two or three times, with a face full of uncertainty. At last he replied:

"Well, between old friends, Fred, I don't think so very strongly myself. Hang it! I wish I'd been brought up a preacher, or something of the kind, so I wouldn't have had business ruining my chances of being the right sort of a family man. Emily don't like my drinking, and I've promised to look up some other business; but 'tisn't easy to get out of steamboating when you've got a good boat and a first-rate trade. Once she felt so awfully about it that I did swear off—don't tell anybody, for God's sake! but I did. I had to look out for my character along the river, though; so I swore off on the sly, and played sick. I'd give my orders to the mates and clerks from my bed in here, and then I'd lock myself in, and read novels and the Bible to keep from thinking. 'Twas awful dry work all around; but 'whole hog or none' is my style, you know. There was fun in it, though, to think of doing something that no other captain on the river ever did. But thunder! by the time night came, I was so tired of loafing that I wrapped a blanket around my head and shoulders, like a Hoosier, sneaked out the outer door here, and walked the guards, between towns; but I was so frightened for fear some one would know me that the walk did me more harm than good. And blue! why a whole cargo of indigo would have looked like a snowstorm alongside of my feelings the second day; 'pon my word, Fred, I caught myself crying in the afternoon, just before dark, and I couldn't find out what for, either. I tell you I was scared, and things got worse as time spun along; the dreams I had that night made me howl, and I felt worse yet when daylight came along again. Toward the next night I was just afraid to go to sleep; so I made up my mind to get well, go on duty, and dodge everybody that it seemed I ought to drink with. Why, the Lord bless your soul! the first time we shoved off from a town I walked up to the bar just as I always did after leaving towns; the barkeeper set out my particular bottle naturally enough, knowing nothing about my little game; I poured my couple of fingers, and dropped it down as innocent as a lamb before I knew what I was doing. By George! my boy, 'twas like-opening the lock-gates; I was just heavenly gay before morning. There was one good thing about it, though—I never told Emily I was going to swear off; I was going to surprise her, so I had the disappointment all to myself. Maybe she isn't as happy as your wife; but whatever else I've done, or not done, I've never lied to her."

"It's a pity you hadn't promised her then, before you tried your experiment," said Fred. The captain shook his head gravely, and replied:

"I guess not; why, I'd have either killed somebody or killed myself if I'd gone on a day or two longer. I s'pose I'd have got along better if I'd had anybody to keep me company, or reason with me like a schoolmaster; but I hadn't. I didn't know anybody that I dared trust with a secret like that."

"I hadn't reformed then, eh?" queried Fred.

"You? why you're one of the very fellows I dodged! Just as I got aboard the boat—I came down late, on purpose—I saw you out aft. I tell you, I was under my blankets, with a towel wrapped around my jaw, in about one minute, and was just a-praying that you hadn't seen me come aboard."

Fred laughed, but his laughter soon made place for a look of tender solicitude. The unexpected turn that had been reached in the conversation he had so dreaded, and the sympathy which had been awakened in him by Crayme's confidence and openness, temporarily made of Fred Macdonald a man with whom Fred himself had never before been acquainted. A sudden idea struck him.

"Sam," said he, "try it over again, and I'll stay by you. I'll nurse you, crack jokes, fight off the blues for you, keep your friends away. I'll even break your neck for you, if you like, seeing it's you, if it'll keep you straight."

"Will you, though?" said the captain, with a look of admiration, undisguised except by wonder. "You're the first friend I ever had, then. By thunder! how marrying Ettie Wedgewell did improve you, Fred! But," and the captain's face lengthened again, "there's a fellow's reputation to be considered, and where'll mine be after it gets around that I've sworn off?"

"Reputation be hanged!" exclaimed Fred. "Lose it, for your wife's sake. Besides, you'll make reputation instead of lose it: you'll be as famous as the Red River Raft, or the Mammoth Cave—the only thing of the kind west of the Alleghanies. As for the boys, tell them I've bet you a hundred that you can't stay off your liquor for a year, and that, you're not the man to take a dare."

"That sounds like business," exclaimed the captain springing to his feet.

"Let me draw up a pledge," said Fred, eagerly, drawing, pen and ink toward him.

"No, you don't, my boy," said the captain, gently, and pushing Fred out of the room and upon the guards. "Emily shall do that. Below there!—Perkins, I've got to go uptown for an hour; see if you can't pick up freight to pay laying-up expenses somehow. Fred, go home and get your traps; 'How's the accepted time,' as your father-in-law has dinged at me, many a Sunday, from the pulpit."

As Sam Crayne strode toward the body of the town, his business instincts took strong hold of his sentiments, in the manner natural alike to saints and sinners, and he laid a plan of operations against whisky which was characterized by the apparent recklessness but actual prudence which makes for glory in steamboat captains, as it does in army commanders. As was his custom in business, he first drove at full speed upon the greatest obstacles; so it came to pass he burst into his own house, threw his arm around his wife with more than ordinary tenderness, and then looking into her eyes with a daring born of utter desperation, said:

"Emily, I came back to sign the strongest temperance-pledge that you can possibly draw up; Fred Macdonald wanted to write out one, but I told him that nobody but you should do it; you've earned the right to, poor girl." No such duty and surprise having ever before come hand-in-hand to Mrs. Crayme, she acted as every true woman will imagine that she herself would have done under similar circumstances, and this action made it not so easy as it might otherwise have been to see just where the pen and ink were, or to prevent the precious document, when completed, from being disfigured by peculiar blots which were neither fingermarks nor ink-spots, yet which in shape and size suggested both of these indications of unneatness. Mrs. Crayme was not an adept at literary composition, and, being conscious of her own deficiency, she begged that a verbal pledge might be substituted; but her husband was firm.

"A contract won't steer worth a cent unless it's in writing, Emily," said he, looking over his wife's shoulder as she wrote. "Gracious, girl, you're making it too thin; any greenhorn could sail right through that and all around it. Here, let me have it." And Crayme wrote, dictating aloud to himself as he did so, "And the—party—of the first part—hereby agrees to—do everything—else that the—spirit of this—agreement—seems to the party—of the second—part to—indicate or—imply." This he read over to his wife, saying:

"That's the way we fix contracts that aren't ship-shape, Emily; a steamboat couldn't be run in any other way." Then Crayme wrote at the foot of the paper, "Sam Crayme, Capt. Str. Excellence" surveyed the document with evident pride, and handed it to his wife, saying:

"Now, you see, you've got me so I can't ever get out of it by trying to make out that 'twas some other Sam Crayme that you reformed."

"Oh husband!" said Mrs. Crayme, throwing her arms about the captain's neck, "don't talk in that dreadful business way! I'm too happy to bear it. I want to go with you on this trip."

The captain shrank away from his wife's arms, and a cold perspiration started all over him as he exclaimed:

"Oh, don't, little girl! Wait till next trip. There's an unpleasant set of passengers aboard; the barometer points to rainy weather, so you'd have to stay in the cabin all the time; our cook is sick, and his cubs serve up the most infernal messes; we're light of freight, and have got to stop at every warehouse on the river, and the old boat'll be either shrieking, or bumping, or blowing off steam the whole continual time."

Mrs. Crayme's happiness had been frightening some of her years away, and her smile carried Sam himself back to his pre-marital period as she said:

"Never mind the rest; I see you don't want me to go," and then she became Mrs. Crayme again as she said, pressing her face closely to her husband's breast, "but I hope you won't get any freight, anywhere, so you can get home all the sooner."

Then the captain called on Dr. White, and announced such a collection of symptoms that the doctor grew alarmed, insisted on absolute quiet, and conveyed Crayme in his own carriage to the boat, saw him into his berth, and gave to Fred Macdonald a multitude of directions and cautions, the sober recording of which upon paper was of great service in saving Fred from suffering over the Quixotic aspect which the whole project had begun, in his mind, to take on. He felt ashamed even to look squarely into Crayme's eye, and his mind was greatly relieved when the captain turned his face to the wall and exclaimed:

"Fred, for goodness' sake get out of here; I feel enough like a baby now, without having a nurse alongside. I'll do well enough for a few hours; just look in once in a while."

During the first day of the trip, Crayme made no trouble for himself or Fred; under the friendly shelter of night, the two men had a two-hour chat, which was alternately humorous, business-like, and retrospective, and then Crayme fell asleep. The next day was reasonably pleasant out of doors, so the captain wrapped himself in a blanket and sat in an extension-chair on the guards, where with solemn face he received some condolences which went far to keep him in good humor after the sympathizers had departed. On the second night the captain was restless, and the two men played cards. On the third day the captain's physique reached the bottom of its stock of patience, and protested indignantly at the withdrawal of its customary stimulus; and it acted with more consistency, though no less ugliness, than the human mind does when under excitement and destitute of control. The captain grew terribly despondent, and Fred found ample use for all the good stories he knew. Some of these amused the captain greatly, but after one of them he sighed.

"Poor old Billy Hockess told me that the only time I ever heard it before, and didn't we have a glorious time that night! He'd just put all his money into the Yenesei—that blew up and took him with it only a year afterward—and he gave us a new kind of punch he'd got the hang of when he went East for the boat's carpets. 'Twas made of two bottles of brandy, one whisky, two rum, one gin, two sherry, and four claret, with guava jelly, and lemon peel that had been soaking in curacoa and honey for a month. It looks kind of weak when you think about it, but there were only six of us in the party, and it went to the spot by the time we got through. Golly, but didn't we make Rome howl that night!"

Fred shuddered, and experimented upon his friend with song; he was rewarded by hearing the captain hum an occasional accompaniment; but, as Fred got fairly into a merry Irish song about one Terry O'Rann, and uttered the lines in which the poet states that the hero

"—took whisky punch Ivery night for his lunch,"

the captain put such a world of expression into a long-drawn sigh that Fred began to feel depressed himself; besides, songs were not numerous in Fred's repertoire, and those in which there was no allusion to drinking could be counted on half his fingers. Then he borrowed the barkeeper's violin, and played the airs which had been his favorites in the days of his courtship, until Crayme exclaimed:

"Say, Fred, we're not playing church; give us something that don't bring all of a fellow's dead friends along with it."

Fred reddened, swung his bow viciously, and dashed into "Natchez Under the Hill," an old air which would have delighted Offenbach, but which will never appear in a collection of classical music.

"Ah! that's something like music," exclaimed Captain Crayme, as Fred paused suddenly to repair a broken string. "I never hear that but I think of Wesley Treepoke, that used to run the Quitman; went afterward to the Rising Planet, when the Quitman's owners put her on a new line as an opposition boat. Wess and I used to work things so as to make Louisville at the same time—he going up, I going down, and then turn about—and we always had a glorious night of it, with one or two other lively boys that we'd pick up. And Wess had a fireman that could fiddle off old 'Natchez' in a way that would just make a corpse dance till its teeth rattled, and that fireman would always be called in just as we'd got to the place where you can't tell what sort of whisky 'tis you're drinking; and I tell you, 'twas so heavenly that a fellow could forgive the last boat that beat him on the river, or stole a landing from him. And such whisky as Wess kept! used to go cruising around the back country, sampling little lots run out of private stills. He'd always find nectar, you'd better believe. Poor old boy! the tremens took him off at last. He hove his pilot overboard just before he died, and put a bullet into Pete Langston, his second clerk—they were both trying to hold him, you see—but they never laid it up against him. I wish I knew what became of the whiskey he had on hand when he walked off—no, I don't either; what am I thinking about? But I do, though—hanged if I don't!"

Fred grew pale: he had heard of drunkards growing delirious upon ceasing to drink; he had heard of men who, in periods of aberration, were impelled by the motive of the last act or recollection which strongly impressed them; what if the captain should suddenly become delirious, and try to throw him overboard or shoot him? Fred determined to get the captain at once upon the guards—no, into the cabin, where there would be no sight of water to suggest anything dreadful—and search his room for pistols. But the captain objected to being moved into the cabin.

"The boys," said the captain, alluding to the gamblers, "are mighty sharp in the eye, and like as not they'd see through my little game, and then where'd my reputation be? Speaking of the boys reminds me of Harry Genang, that cleaned out that rich Kentucky planter at bluff one night, and then swore off gambling for life, and gave a good-by supper aboard the boat. 'Twas just at the time when Prince Imperial Champagne came out, and the whole supper was made of that splendid stuff. I guess I must have put away four bottles, and if I'd known how much he'd ordered, I could have carried away a couple more. I've always been sorry I didn't."

Fred wondered if there was any subject of conversation which would not suggest liquor to the captain; he even brought himself to ask if Crayme had seen the new Methodist Church at Barton since it had been finished.

"Oh, yes," said the captain; "I started to walk Moshier home one night, after we'd punished a couple of bottles of old Crow whisky at our house, and he caved in all of a sudden, and I laid him out on the steps of that very church till I could get a carriage. Those were my last two bottles of Crow, too; it's too bad the way the good things of this life paddle off."

The captain raised himself in his berth, sat on the edge thereof, stood up, stared out of the window, and began to pace his room with his head down and his hands behind his back. Little by little he raised his head, drooped his hands, flung himself into a chair, beat the devil's tattoo on the table, sprang up excitedly, and exclaimed:

"I'm going back on all the good times I ever had."

"You're only getting ready to try a new kind, Sam," said Fred.

"Well, I'm going back on my friends."

"Not on all of them; the dead ones would pat you on the back, if they got a chance."

"A world without whisky looks infernally dismal to a fellow that isn't half done living."

"It looks first-rate to a fellow that hasn't got any backdown in him."

"Curse you! I wish I'd made you back down when you first talked temperance to me."

"Go ahead! Then curse your wife—don't be afraid; you've been doing it ever since you married her."

Crayme flew at Macdonald's throat; the younger man grappled the captain and threw him into his bunk. The captain struggled and glared like a tiger; Fred gasped between the special efforts dictated by self-preservation:

"Sam, I—promised to—to see you—through—and I'm—going to—do it, if—if I have to—break your neck."

The captain made one tremendous effort; Fred braced one foot against the table, put a knee on the captain's breast, held both the captain's wrists tightly, looked full into the captain's eyes, and breathed a small prayer—for his own safety. For a moment or two, perhaps longer, the captain strained violently, and then relaxed all effort, and cried:

"Fred, you've whipped me!"

"Nonsense! whip yourself," exclaimed Fred, "if you're going to stop drinking."

The captain turned his face to the wall and said nothing; but he seemed to be so persistently swallowing something that Fred suspected a secreted bottle, and moved an investigation so suddenly that the captain had not time in which to wipe his eyes.

"Hang it, Fred," said he, rather brokenly; "how can what's babyish in men whip a full-grown steamboat captain?"

"The same way that it whipped a full-grown woolen-mill manager once, I suppose, old boy," said Macdonald.

"Is that so?" exclaimed the captain, astonishment getting so sudden an advantage over shame that he turned over and looked his companion in the face. "Why—how are you, Fred? I feel as if I was just being introduced. Didn't anybody else help?"

"Yes," said Fred, "a woman; but—you've got a wife, too."

Crayme fell back on his pillow and sighed. "If I could only think about her, Fred! But I can't; whisky's the only thing that comes into my mind."

"Can't think about her!" exclaimed Fred; "why, are you acquainted with her yet, I wonder? I'll never forget the evening you were married."

"That was jolly, wasn't it?" said Crayme. "I'll bet such sherry was never opened west of the Alleghanies before or—"

"Hang your sherry!" roared Fred; "it's your wife that I remember. You couldn't see her, of course, for you were standing alongside of her; but the rest of us—well, I wished myself in your place, that's all."

"Did you, though?" said Crayme, with a smile which seemed rather proud; "well, I guess old Major Pike did too, for he drank to her about twenty times that evening. Let's see; she wore a white moire antique, I think they called it, and it cost twenty-one dollars a dozen, and there was at least one broken bottle in every—"

"And I made up my mind she was throwing herself away, in marrying a fellow that would be sure to care more for whisky than he did for her," interrupted Fred.

"Ease off, Fred, ease off now; there wasn't any whisky there; I tried to get some of the old Twin Tulip brand for punch, but—"

"But the devil happened to be asleep, and you got a chance to behave yourself," said Fred.

Crayme looked appealingly. "Fred," said he, "tell me about her yourself; I'll take it as a favor."

"Why, she looked like a lot of lilies and roses," said Fred, "except that you couldn't tell where one left off and the other began. As she came into the room I felt like getting down on my knees. Old Bayle was telling me a vile story just then, but the minute she came in he stopped as if he was shot."

"He wouldn't drink a drop that evening," said Crayme, "and I've puzzled my wits over that for five years—"

"She looked so proud of you" interrupted Fred, with some impatience.

"Did she?" asked Crayme. "Well, I guess I was a good-looking fellow in those days; I know Pike came up to me once, with a glass in his hand, and said that he ought to drink to me, for I was the finest-looking groom he'd ever seen. He was so tight, though, that he couldn't hold his glass steady; and though you know I never had a drop of stingy blood in me, it did go to my heart to see him spill that gorgeous sherry."

"She looked very proud of you," Fred repeated; "but I can't see why, for I've never seen her do it since."

"You will, though, hang you!" exclaimed the captain. "Get out of here! I can think about her now, and I don't want anybody else around. No rudeness meant, you know, Fred."

Fred Macdonald retired quietly, taking with him the keys of both doors, and feeling more exhausted than he had been on any Saturday night since the building of the mill.



FREE SPEECH.

[The following is quoted, by permission, from Mr. Habberton's volume, "THE SCRIPTURE CLUB OF VALLEY REST," published by G.P. Putnam's Sons, New York.]

The members of the Scripture Club did not put off their holy interest with their Sunday garments, as people of the world do with most things religious. When the little steamboat Oakleaf started on her Monday morning trip for the city, the members of the Scripture Club might be identified by their neglect of the morning papers and their tendency to gather in small knots and engage in earnest conversation. In a corner behind the paddle-box, securely screened from wind and sun, sat Mr. Jodderel and Mr. Primm, the latter adoring with much solemn verbosity the sacred word, and the former piling text upon text to demonstrate the final removal of all the righteous to a new state of material existence in a better-ordered planet. In the one rocking-chair of the cabin sat Insurance President Lottson, praising to Mr. Hooper, who leaned obsequiously upon the back of the chair and occasionally hopped vivaciously around it, the self-disregard of the disciples, and the evident inability of any one within sight to follow their example. The prudent Wagget was interviewing Dr. Fahrenglotz, who was going to attend the meeting of a sort of Theosophic Society, composed almost entirely of Germans, and was endeavoring to learn what points there might be in the Doctor's belief which would make a man wiser unto salvation, while Captain Maile stood by, a critical listener, and distributed pitying glances between the two. Well forward, but to the rear of the general crowd, stood Deacon Bates, in an attitude which might have seemed conservative were it not manifestly helpless; Mr. Buffle, with the smile peculiar to the successful business man; Lawyer Scott, with the air of a man who had so much to say that time could not possibly suffice in which to tell it all; Squire Woodhouse, who was in search of a good market for hay; Principal Alleman, who was in chase of an overdue shipment of text-books; and Mr. Radley, who, with indifferent success, was filling the self-assigned roll of moderator of the little assemblage.

"Nothing settled by the meeting?" said Mr. Buffle, echoing a despondent suggestion by Deacon Bates. "Of course not. You don't suppose that what theologians have been squabbling over for two thousand years can be settled in a day, do you? We made a beginning and that's a good half of anything. Why, I and every other man that builds boats have been hard at work for years, looking for the best model, and we haven't settled the question yet. We're in earnest about it—we can't help but be, for there's money in it, and while we're waiting we do the next best thing—we use the best ones we know about."

"Don't you think you'd get at the model sooner, if some of you weren't pig-headed about your own, and too fond of abusing each other's?" asked Mr. Radley.

"Certainly," admitted Mr. Buffle, "and that's why I wanted us to get up a Bible-class like the one we have. If everybody will try to see what's good in his neighbor's theories and what's bad in his own, his fortune—his religion, I mean—is a sure thing. Fiddling on one string always makes a thin sort of a tune."

"There were a good many small tunes begun yesterday, then," observed Squire Woodhouse.

"Well," said Mr. Buffle, "I thought something of the kind, myself, but a man can't break an old habit to pieces all at once. Things will be different before long, though."

"There is no reason why they shouldn't," said Principal Alleman, "excepting one reason that's stronger than any other. You can't get to the bottom of any of the sayings of Christ, the Prophets or the Apostles, without finding that they mean, Do Right. And when you reach that point, what is in the man and not what is in the book comes into play; or, rather, it always should but seldom does."

"I suppose that's so," said Mr. Buffle, soberly.

"In and of ourselves we can do nothing," remarked Deacon Bates.

"It's very odd, then, that we should have been told to do so much," replied Principal Alleman.

"It was to teach us our dependence upon a higher power," said Deacon Bates, with more than his usual energy.

"Are we only to be taught, and never to learn, then?" asked Principal Alleman. "Some of my pupils seem to think so, but those who depend least upon the teacher and act most fully up to what they have been taught are the ones I call my best scholars."

Deacon Bates's lower lip pushed up its neighbor; in the school-room, the Principal's theory might apply, but in religion it was different, or he (Deacon Bates) had always been mistaken, and this possibility was not to be thought of for an instant. Fortunately for his peace of mind, the boat touched her city dock just then, and from that hour until five in the afternoon, when he left his store for the boat, religious theories absented themselves entirely from Deacon Bates's mind.

The last meeting of the class was still the most popular subject of conversation among the members, however, and interest of such a degree could not help be contagious. Other residents of Valley Rest, overhearing some of the chats between the members, expressed a desire to listen to the discussions of the class, and to all was extended a hearty welcome, without regard to race, color, or previous condition of religious servitude, and all were invited to be doers as well as hearers. So at the next session appeared ex-Judge Cottaway, who had written a book and was a vestryman of St. Amos Parish; Broker Whilcher, who worshiped with the Unitarians, but found them rather narrow, and Broker Whilcher's bookkeeper, who read Herbert Spencer, and could not tell what he himself believed, even if to escape the penalty of death. Various motives brought men from other churches, including even one from Father McGarry's flock, and all of them were assured that they might say whatever they chose, provided only that they believed it.

"Shall we continue our consideration of last Sunday's lesson?" asked Deacon Bates, after the opening prayer had been offered. "We have some new members, and should therefore have some additional views to consider."

"Let's hear everybody," said Captain Maile. "If we talk as long about this verse as we'll have to talk before we reach any agreement, we'll all die before we can reach the square up-and-down verses that are further along in this same sermon."

"If the class has no objection to offer, we will continue our study of the third verse of the fifth chapter of Matthew, and those who spoke on last Sunday will allow the newer members and others an opportunity to make their views known." As Deacon Bates spoke, his eye rested warningly on Mr. Jodderel.

"I think," said Mr. Jodderel, "that the new members ought to know what ideas have already been presented, so as to throw any new light upon them, if they can. The nature of the kingdom of heaven, now, is the most important question suggested by the lesson, and—"

"It won't be of the slightest, consequence to any one," interrupted Principal Alleman, "unless they first comply with the condition which the verse imposes upon those who want to reach the kingdom."

"I wouldn't be too sure of that," remarked President Lottson; "Jesus said that the poor in spirit should have the kingdom of heaven; He didn't say that no one else should share it with them. What is written doesn't always, express all that is meant."

"It doesn't in insurance policies, anyhow," said Squire Woodhouse; "when my barn burned—"

"Time is precious, my brethren," said Deacon Bates hastily, scenting a personality. "I will therefore ask Judge Cottaway for his opinion of the passage."

"I think," said the judge, with that impressive cough which is the rightful indulgence of a man who has written a volume on the rules of evidence, "that 'poor in spirit' undoubtedly means unassuming, rightly satisfied with what is their due, mindful of the fact that human nature is so imperfect that whatever a man obtains is probably more than he deserves. They cannot be the meek, for special allusion is made to the meek in this same group of specially designated persons. Neither can it refer to people who are usually called poor-spirited persons, to wit, those who are too devoid of what is commonly designated as spirit, for these are properly classified as peace-makers, and have a similar though not identical blessing promised to them."

"The class owes its thanks to the judge for his clear definition of the term 'poor in spirit,'" said Mr. Jodderel, "and if he can be equally distinct upon the expression 'kingdom of heaven' he will put an end to a great deal of senseless blundering."

"I know of but one definition," said the judge, "heaven is the abode of God and the angels, and of those who are finally saved."

"Ah, but where is it? that's the question this class wants answered," said Mr. Jodderel, twisting his body and craning his head forward as he awaited the answer.

"Really," said the judge, "you must excuse me. I don't know where it is, and I can't see that study as to its locality can throw any light upon the lesson."

This opinion, delivered by an ex-judge, who had written a book on the rules of evidence, would have quieted almost any one else, and the members' faces expressed a sense of relief as they thought that Mr. Jodderel was not one of the faint-hearted, and in his opinion faint-heartedness and quietness were one and the same thing.

"No light upon the lesson?" echoed Mr. Jodderel. "Why, what is the Bible for, if not to inform us of our destiny? What is this world but a place of preparation for another? And how can we prepare ourselves unless we know what our future place and duty is to be?"

"Next!" exclaimed Deacon Bates with more than his usual energy, and Mr. Jodderel sank back into his chair and talked angrily with every feature but his mouth, and with his whole body besides. "Mr. Whilcher has some new ideas to present, no doubt," continued the leader, bracing himself somewhat firmly in his chair, for the Deacon naturally expected an assault from a man of Mr. Whilcher's peculiar views.

"Poverty of spirit seems to me to be old English for modesty," said Mr. Whilcher, "We know very little, comparatively, of the great designs of God, and about as little of the intentions of our fellow-men, so we should be very careful how we question our Maker or criticise our neighbors. No human being would appreciate divine perfection if he saw it; no man can give his fellow men full credit for what they would do, if they were angels, and are sorry because they can't do. I think the passage means that only by that modesty, that self-repression, by which alone a man can accept the inevitable as decreed by God, and forbear that fault-finding which comes fully as easy as breathing, can a man be fitted for the companionship of the loving company which awaits us all in the next world"

"Whereabouts?" asked Mr. Jodderel.

Half-a-dozen members filibustered at once, and Mr. Jodderel was temporarily suppressed, after which Squire Woodhouse remarked:

"Well, now, that sounds first-rate—I never knew before that Unitarians had such good religion in them—no harm meant, you know, Whilcher."

"Now let us hear from Mr. Bungfloat," said Deacon Bates.

Mr. Bungfloat, bookkeeper to Mr. Whilcher, hopelessly explored his memory for something from Herbert Spencer that would bear upon the subject, but finding nothing at hand, he quoted some expressions from John Stuart Mill's essay on "Nature," and was hopelessly demoralized when he realized that they did not bear in the remotest manner upon the topic under consideration. Then Deacon Bates announced that the subject was open for general remark and comment. Mr. Jodderel was upon his feet in an instant, though the class has no rule compelling the members to rise while speaking.

"Mr. Leader," said he, "everybody has spoken, but nobody has settled the main question, which is, where is the 'kingdom of heaven'? Everybody knows who the poor in spirit are; any one that didn't know when we began has now a lot of first-class opinions to choose from. But where and what is heaven—that is what we want to know."

A subdued but general groan indicated the possibility that Mr. Jodderel was mistaken as to the desires of the class. Meanwhile, young Mr. Banty, who had been to Europe, and listened to much theological debate in cafes and beer-gardens, remarked:

"I'm not a member of this respected body, but I seem to be included in the chairman's invitation. I profess to be a man of the world—I've been around a good deal—and I never could see that the poor in spirit amounted to a row of pins. If they're fit for heaven they ought to be fit for something on this side of that undiscovered locality."

"Discovered millions upon millions of times, bless the Lord," interrupted Squire Woodhouse.

"Well, the discoverers sent no word back, at any rate," said young Mr. Banty, "so there's one view I think ought to be considered; isn't it possible that Jesus was mistaken?"

Mr. Primm turn pale and Deacon Bates shivered violently, while a low hum and a general shaking of heads showed the unpopularity of young Mr. Banty's idea.

"The class cannot entertain such a theory for an instant," answered Deacon Bates, as soon as he could recover his breath, "though it encourages the freest expression of opinion."

"Oh!" remarked Mr. Banty, with a derisive smile. The tone in which this interjection was delivered put the class upon its spirit at once.

"Our leader means exactly what he says," said Mr. Jodderel; "any honest expression of opinion is welcome here."

"If such were not the case," said Mr. Primm, "a rival class would not have been formed."

"And none of us would have learned how many sides there are to a great question," said. Mr. Buffle.

"Larger liberty wouldn't be possible," said Builder Stott. "Why, I've just had to shudder once in a while, but the speakers meant what they said, and I rejoiced that there was somewhere where they could say it."

"I've said everything I've wanted to," remarked Squire Woodhouse.

"That's so," exclaimed Insurance President Lottson.

"I haven't seen any man put down," testified Captain Maile, "and I don't yet understand what to make of it."

"Nobody could ask a fairer show," declared Mr. Radley.

"The utmost courtesy has been displayed toward me," said Dr. Fahrenglotz, "although I am conscious my views are somewhat at variance with those of others."

"The nature of proof has not been as clearly understood as it should have been," said young Lawyer Scott; "but no one has lacked opportunity to express his sentiments."

"So far from fault being found with the freedom of speech," said Mr. Alleman, "the sentiment of the class is, I think, that the expression of additional individual impressions would have been cordially welcomed, as they will also hereafter be."

Young Mr. Banty felt himself to be utterly annihilated, and the pillars of the class looked more stable and enduring than ever, and felt greatly relieved when the session ended, and they could congratulate each other on the glorious spirit of liberty which had marked their collective deliberations. And when Squire Woodhouse dashed impetuously from the room, and returned to report that Dr. Humbletop's class consisted of one solitary pupil, several of the members unconsciously indulged in some hearty hand-shaking.

THE END