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"Let him take his oath if he dare!"

Mr. Carman consulted with his counsel, and withdrew.

The judge then arose to pass sentence.

"In consideration of your youth, and the temptation to which in tender years you were subjected, the court gives you the lightest sentence,—one year's imprisonment. But let me solemnly warn you against any further steps in the way you have taken. Crime can have no valid excuse. It is evil in the sight of God and man, and leads only to suffering. When you come forth again after your imprisonment, may it be with the resolution to die rather than commit crime!"

A year afterward, when James Lewis came from prison, his mother was dead. From the day her pale face faded from his vision as he passed from the court-room, he never saw her again.

Ten years thereafter a man was reading a newspaper in a far Western town. He had a calm, serious face, and looked like one who had known suffering and trial.

"Brought to justice at last!" he said to himself, with deep emotion. "Convicted on the charge of open insolvency, and sent to state prison. So much for the man who gave me in tender years the first lessons in wrong-doing. But thank God! another lesson,—the words of the judge, spoken to me so many years ago,—have been remembered. 'When you come forth again, may it be with the resolution to die rather than commit crime!' and I have kept these words in my heart when there seemed no way of escaping except through crime. And God helping me, I will remember them as long as I live."

"A PICTURE OF GOD."

It is fairly pathetic what a stranger God is in His own world. He comes to His own, and they who are His own kinsfolk keep Him standing outside the door while they peer suspiciously at Him through the crack at the hinges.

To know God really, truly, is the beginning of a normal life. One of the best pictures of God that I ever saw came to me in a simple story. It was of a man, a minister, who lived in a New England town, who had a son, about fourteen years of age, going to school. One afternoon the boy's teacher called at the home, and asked for the father, and said:—

"Is your boy sick?"

"No. Why?"

"He was not at school to-day."

"Is that so?"

"Nor yesterday."

"You don't mean it!"

"Nor the day before."

"Well!"

"And I supposed he was sick."

"No, he's not sick."

"Well, I thought I should tell you."

And the father said, "Thank you," and the teacher left.

And the father sat thinking. By and by he heard a click at the gate, and he knew the boy was coming, so he went to open the door. And the boy knew as he looked up that his father knew about those three days. And the father said:—

"Come into the library, Phil." And Phil went, and the door was shut. And the father said: "Phil, your teacher was here this afternoon. He tells me you were not at school to-day, nor yesterday nor the day before. And we supposed you were. You let us think you were. And you do not know how badly I feel. I have always trusted you. I have always said, 'I can trust my boy Phil.' And here you've been a living lie for three whole days. And I can't tell you how badly I feel about it."

Well, that was hard on Phil to be talked to quietly like that. If his father had spoken to him roughly, or—had asked him out to the woodshed for a confidential interview, it would not have been nearly so hard. Then, after a moment's pause, the father said, "Phil, we'll get down and pray." And the thing was getting harder for Phil all the time.

He didn't want to pray just then. And they got down. And the father poured out his heart in prayer. And the boy knew as he listened how badly his father felt over his conduct. Somehow he saw himself in the mirror on his knees as he had not before. It's queer about that mirror of the knee-joints. It does show so many things. Many folks don't like it.

And they got up. And the father's eyes were wet. And Phil's eyes were not dry. Then the father said:—

"My boy, there's a law of life that where there is sin, there is suffering. You can't detach those two things. Where there is suffering there has been sin somewhere. And where there is sin there will be suffering. You can't get these two things apart. Now," he went on, "you have done wrong. And I am in this home like God is in the world. So we will do this. You go up to the attic. I'll make a pallet for you there. We'll take your meals up to you at the regular times, and you stay up there as long as you've been a living lie—three days and three nights."

And Phil didn't say a word. They went up stairs, the pallet was made, and the father kissed his boy and left him alone with his thoughts. Supper time came, and the father and mother sat down to eat. But they couldn't eat for thinking about the boy. The longer they chewed upon the food, the bigger and dryer it got in their mouths. And swallowing it was clear out of the question. Then they went into the sitting room for the evening. He picked up the evening paper to read, and she sat down to sew. Well, his eyes weren't very good. He wore glasses. And this evening he couldn't seem to see distinctly—the glasses seemed blurred. It must have been the glasses, of course. So he took them off and cleaned them very deliberately and then found that he had been holding the paper upside down. And she tried to sew. But the thread broke, and she couldn't seem to get the needle threaded again. You could see they were both bothered. How we do reveal ourselves in the details!

By and by the clock struck nine, and then ten, their usual hour for retiring. But they made no move toward retiring. She said, "Aren't you going to bed?" And he said, "I think I'll not go yet a bit; you go." "No, I guess I'll wait a while, too." And the clock struck eleven, and the hands worked around toward twelve. Then they arose, and locked up, and went to bed, but—not to sleep. Each one made pretence to be asleep, and each one knew the other was not asleep. By and by she said (women are always the keener), "Why don't you sleep?" And he said gently, "How did you know I wasn't sleeping? Why don't you sleep?"

"Well, I just can't for thinking of the boy up in the attic."

"That's the bother with me," he replied. And the clock in the hall struck twelve, and one, and two. Still no sleep came.

At last he said, "Mother, I can't stand this any longer; I'm going up stairs with Phil." And he took his pillow and went softly out of the room, and up the attic stairs, and pressed the latch-key softly, so as not to wake the boy if he were asleep, and tiptoed across the attic floor to the corner by the window, and looked—there Phil lay, wide awake, with something glistening in his eyes, and what looked like stains on his cheeks. And the father got down in between the sheets with his boy, and they got their arms around each other's necks, for they had always been the best of friends, father and boy, and their tears got mixed up on each other's cheeks. Then they slept. And the next night when the time came for sleep, the father said, "Good-night, mother, I'm going up stairs with Phil." And the second night he slept in the attic with his boy. And the third night, again he said, "Mother, good-night, I'm going up with the boy again." And the third night he slept in the place of punishment with his son.

You are not surprised to know that to-day that boy, a man grown, is telling the story of Jesus with tongue and life of flame in the heart of China.

Do you know, I think that father is the best picture of God I ever saw. God could not take away sin. It's here. He could not take away suffering out of kindness to man. For suffering is sin's index finger, saying, "There's something wrong here." So He came down in the person of His Son, and lay down alongside of man for three days and three nights. That's God—our God. And beyond that He comes and puts His life alongside of yours and mine, and makes us hate the bad, and long to be pure. To be on intimate terms with Him, to live in the atmosphere of His presence, to spend the day with Him—that is the true normal life.

IF YOU ARE ONLY HONEST

It is not best to try to still the voice of conscience by repeating the popular maxim, "If you are only honest, that is all."

The mill was doing a great business that day, when Jack and David Jamison rode up with their bag of corn to be ground. They lived on a small farm five miles off the main road, and were not sorry at the prospect of waiting several hours for their grist.

This would give them a chance of seeing something of the liveliness and bustle of "The Corner," as that part of the village was called, where stood the tavern, the store, and the mill.

Jack and David had plenty of time, and they ran about a great deal, here and there, and saw and heard many things.

At last, a heavy shower coming on, they went back to the mill to eat their lunch, and to inquire when their turn would come.

There they found the miller's son and the son of the squire engaged in earnest conversation, which soon took Jack's attention. The miller's son was urging upon the squire's son the importance of a correct understanding of the Bible. But the squire's son only insisted that "It doesn't matter what a man believes, if he is only sincere."

Jack was a vain, foolish fellow, and felt very much pleased with the rattling off-hand speech of the squire's son, and he only wished that he could talk as well; then he would put his old grandfather to confusion—indeed he would.

"It is no matter what a man believes, provided he is sincere," muttered Jack, bracing his conscience against the godly conversation of his relatives; "I'll fix 'em now," he said to himself, with a decided nod of the head.

Late in the afternoon the boys' grist was ready; then the old horse was brought out of the shed, the bag of meal placed across her back, and Jack and David both mounted; boys, horse, and bag, all homeward bound.

"You have a longer ride ahead than I wish you had, boys," said the miller, casting his eyes toward a dark cloud which was rising and darkening the western sky; "there's plenty of water up there for my mill."

But they set off briskly, and were soon lost to sight among the windings of the forest road. But the gloom gathered faster than the horse trotted, so that it was quite dark when they reached a fork in the road where it might make considerable difference which road they took. One was the main road; this way there was a good bridge over Bounding Brook, a mountain stream which was often dangerously swollen by the spring rains. It was the safest, though the longest way home.

The other was a wood path through the pines, which was the one often taken by farmers living east of the town, to shorten the distance to The Corner. In this road, Bounding Brook was crossed by fording.

"Father told us to be sure to take the traveled road if it was late," said David.

"Going to," asserted Jack, as he drew rein for a moment, at the division of the roads.

But really, Jack was confused; the windings of the road, with nothing but woods on each side, and, of course, no distinct landmarks to direct them, together with the gloom of the night and their small acquaintance with the roads, puzzled the boys not a little. But Jack, being the older, wished to impress his brother with a sense of his superior wisdom, and would not admit his confusion.

Quickly deciding which road he would take, he whipped up, exclaiming conclusively, "it's all right!"

"Are you sure?" asked David.

"Certainly; I cannot be mistaken."

"I don't know," said David. "Let me jump off and run to that light yonder; there must be a cabin there."

"Oh, we can't stop for all that," said Jack. "I honestly believe this is the traveled road, David; can't you trust me?"

"But your honestly believing it, doesn't make it so," protested David.

"I haven't a doubt of it, Dave, you be still," cried Jack angrily.

"I think we ought to ask, so as to be sure," persisted David.

But Jack whipped up and poor David's words went to the winds, as gust after gust of the coming shower roared through the forest, and Jack urged the horse to all the speed which her heavy load would allow.

The self-willed lad was well pleased with his hasty decision, and the farther he went, the more and more convinced was he that it was the right way.

Presently the roaring of Bounding Brook arose above the noise of the tempest.

"We shall be over the bridge in a jiffy," cried Jack, "and then, old fellow, what will you say?"

"I'd like to feel myself safely over," muttered David, when, before the other could reply, Jack, David, horse, and meal went floundering into the raging waters of the swollen stream. It was pitch dark; the storm was on them, and they were miles from human help.

The first few moments of horrible suspense can scarcely be expressed. Jack at last found himself anchored on a log of drift-wood, the icy waters breaking over him, and the bridle still fast in his hand.

"David!" he shouted at the top of his voice, "David!"

"The Lord have mercy!" cried David, "I'm somewhere."

The meal? ah, that was making a pudding in some wild eddy of the Bounding Brook far below.

"No matter what a man believes, provided he's sincere," cried poor Jack, thoroughly drenched and humbled. "It's the biggest lie the devil ever got up."

"It does matter. Being right is the main thing. Sincerity doesn't save a fellow from the tremendous consequences of being wrong. It can't get him out of trouble. He's obliged to endure it, no matter how sincere he had been.

"Didn't I honestly believe I was on the right road, when I was like going to perdition all the time?"

The experience of that night completely and forever cured poor Jack of a common error which has brought many a poor soul into the wild surges of unbelief and irreligion.

SIX THINGS BEHIND

"Rufus," said his mother, "did you mail the letter I gave you last evening?"

"Oh, mother, I forgot it! I meant to, but just then I had to go and get some new shoe strings, so it went out of my mind."

"Didn't I speak of those strings yesterday?"

"Yes; but just then father called me to ask if I had weeded the pansy bed the night before."

"And had you?"

"No, mother, I was just writing the letter you said must go to grandma—"

"I thought you were to write that on Saturday."

"I meant to, but I had to do some examples that I didn't do on Friday, so I hadn't time."

"Rufus," called his brother, "didn't you nail the broken slat on the rabbit pen yesterday?"

"Oh!" Rufus sprang up in dismay. "I was just going to, but I hadn't watered the house plants, and I went to do that, and then—"

"The rabbits are all out."

Rufus hastened to join in the hunt for the pets. In the course of his search he came upon two tennis rackets which he had "meant to" bring in the night before, and they were in bad condition.

"There now! It will cost ever so much to get these strung up. Why didn't I take them in, anyway? I remember I hadn't locked the stable door when father called me, and then I hurried to do it before he asked me again."

Later in the day, Rufus, with a penitent face, brought to his mother the letter which should have been mailed. During the rabbit hunt it had slipped out of his pocket, and one of his brothers had found it in the damp clover. It was now a sorry-looking missive.

THE OLD BROWN HAND

 
The hand that pressed my fevered brow
Was withered, wasted, brown, and old;
Its work was almost over now,
As swollen veins and wrinkles told.
No longer brushing back my hair,
It gently rested on my wrist;
Its touch seemed sacred as a prayer
By the sweet breath of angels kissed.
 
 
I knew 'twas thin, and brown, and old,
With many a deep and honored seam,
Wearing one little band of gold,—
The only trace of youth's bright dream:
And yet o'er every mark of care,
In every wrinkle's mystic line,
I fancied jewels gleaming there
That wore a beauty all divine!
 
 
Another hand my fingers pressed—
'Twas like the lily dipped in snow;
Yet still it gave a wild unrest—
A weariness that none should know.
There pearls with costly diamonds gleamed,
And opals showed their changing glow,
As moonlight on the ice has beamed,
Or trembled on the stainless snow.
 
 
I caught again the old, brown hand,
And smoothed it fondly in my own,—
A woman's, though so old and tanned—
A woman's—brave and fearless grown.
Aye! it had labored long and well
To dry the tear, to soothe the pain;
Its own strong nerve to all would tell
That life has work which brings no shame.
 
 
We love the pretty hand that rests
In gentle fondness on our own,
With nails like rosy calyx pressed
Upon a pearly, stainless cone;
But sacred is the healthful palm
Which smooths the ills that round us band;
 
 
The many feel its sacred balm,
And holy seems the old brown hand!