I go: and where we have been you abide,
To face the light
Of days that pour their splendor far and
wide
And mock the night.
How you will hate their brightness well I
know
Thelr fragrant ways,
Thick set with bloom, free winds that come
and go,
And birds that praise
The trinmph of the summer, and are glad
Of their desire,
Fulfilled in warmth, with mirth and music
mad,
And set on fire,
Of love, to whom all sweet things do belong;
Those new, bright days.
With overflow of blossoms and glad song,
You will not praise.
The day will vex you and the night deny
Your idle prayer;
Shall I, across strange waters,
cry,
And be aware?
ERT SCI
THE WITCH'S RING.
hear you
A very curious, straggling sieepy dol
village is Adlingtune, Half a century
behind tse rest of the world, it still sits
between the green hills of an Eastern
State with its elbows on its knees and
its chin in its hands, musing on bygone
days when old King George held the
lznd under his sway, and when, as its
old folk sagely remark, things were not
as they are now. There are a great
many o'd people in Adlingtune—n fact,
very few die young there. The atmos-
phere is so dreamy and peaceful that
excitement cannot exist, and the wear
and tear of the busy world is unknown,
or, at least, only hums faintly over the
hills, like the buzzing of a flyon a
sunny pane on a summer day. And so
they still sit in their chimney-corners
from year to year, and muse, and dose,
and dream, until they dream their lives
away and take their final sleep. It was
to an old crone ot this description that
I was indebted for my adventure,
In the course of my ramblings about
the village, I chanced, one day, to peer
over a crumbling wall and discovered
an old, disused burial-ground. The
brown slabs weae broKen, prostrate,
and scattered, with only here and there
a forlorn, unsteady stone standing
wearily, and waiting for the time to
come waen it, too, might fall down and
rest with the sleepers beneath. Scram-
bling over the low wall, I stooped about
amoug the grass, pushing away me
tangled masses of vines and leaves from
the faces of slabs that I might read the
inscriptions there. Buf the suns and
storms of over a hundred years had ob-
literated nearly all the letters, so that
only portions of names and dates re-
mained. Finally, down mn a deep
¢o.ne: of the enclosure, where the
weeds grew densest and tue shade was
darkest, I found an old stone which,
leaning forward, had protected its face
from the storms, and on this stone I
read the word:
BARBARA CONWAIL,
BORN 1670, p1ED 1730. AGE 60 YEARS
Having been Lawfally Executed for
the Practice of Witchcraft,
My curiosity was at once aroused. I
inquired of several persons as to the
history of this woman but without suc-
cess for a time. Finally, however, 1
found an old woman who told me the
history of Barbara Conwail, as it haa
been handed down by her ancestors:
living in an old stone house at the
edge of the village she was rarely seen
—for no one ever crossed her threshold
—save when she was occasionally met
by a frightened party of children idling
away a summer afternoon’s holiday in
the woods, when she would scowl and
pass away, stooping along over the
fields, gathering herbs with which to
brew her mighty potions. No one ever
interfered with her, however, until a
sad year came to Adlingtune,
An epidemic broke out, and raged
with a fury that nothing could with-
stand. People began to mutter that
Barbara, the witch, was the cause of it.
Passing along the road, she was stoned
by a party of boys, to whom she turned
aud, shaking her bony hand, shrieked
that the cugee was upon them.
Two of lads sickened and died in
a few days, and, though scores were
carried sway in 8 like magner, an es-
fal import was attached to their
death. Barbara began to be watched,
They looked throagh her windows at
midnight and tound her bending over a
seething cauldren, throwing in herbs,
muiiering cabalistic words, and stirring
the mixture with what they reported to
be a human bone. Old Barbara wus
working her charms.
No when, one morning, 4 man cine
int» town, bruised and covered with
mu |, and testified that as he rode past
old Barbara's house at twelve o'clock
the might before, he saw the Arch
Fiend and the witch in conversation
upon the house-top, surrounded by
flames, and laughing fiendishly in the
lurid glare as they shook their fists at
the plague-stricken village sleeping
below, his tale found ready credence.
The fact that he was an habitual
drunkard, and had, on more than one
occasion, rolled from lus house in a
drunken stupor and passed the night in
a ditch, dreaming wild dreams, did not
in the least Sgasy qu the belies of
the villagers account is
scene; and when he related how this
pair of demons had pounced upon him,
had first tortured and then thrown
The old woman
jow, impressive monotone, which,
what she said, almost earried conviction
to. me in spite of reason, As I saun-
tered away, ridiculing these ignorant
and superstitious village folk, I found
myself almost unconsciously wandering
back through the old burial ground to
the witch's grave, Carelessly glancing
at tho inscription. I was surprised to
find that upon that very day was the
one hundred and fiftieth anniversary
of her death, and still more surprised
when the thought occurred to me of
watching at her grave that night, I
ridiculed and scoffed the idea. Where
was my common sense and incredulity?
But, ‘still returning ever, came that
wayward thing called fancy--and it
conquered.
The world was wild and weird that
night, when I stole forth from the vil-
lage. The wind was moaning throxgh
the trees and sobb ng piteously; the
black clouds were driven in broken
patches across the sky, now letting
down the moonshine, and again
shrouding all in blackest night, and
making the shadows chase each other
about and steal around corners upon
one in a manner that made me wince
in spite of myself, Climbing the low
stone wall—rather nervously, I confess,
I stole away through the old, down-
trodden graves, pushing through the
weeds and briers as silently as possible,
and making my way toward that dark,
dreary corner where toe old witch re-
posed. A graveyard at noon is a very
different spot from a graveyard at mid-
night, especially if one is there to seck
an interview with a spirit.
I reached the place and stood by the
tomb, It still lacked a few minutes of
twelve, and as I stood there watching
the moonlight flitting over the graves,
I longed for a little ray to creep in with
me. But no—approaching and reced-
ing and wavering all about me, it never
touched this grave, but fled away as
often as it approached, as though frigh-
tened at the black shadow forever lurk-
ing there.
By and by the village clock toll.d
welve, As the slow, tremulous tones
stole out on the night, the wind ceased
moamng, the clouds covered the face
of the moon, the insects stopped chirp
ing, and when the last stroke was fin.
ished, the almost unbearable silence
was broken only by my own breathing,
which I strove in vain to suppress,
The darkness was intense, and I could
see nothing. A terrible feeling of guilt
and terror seized me, that I, a mortal,
should be intruding there at such an
hour, Mechanically I strove to speak
the words I had been told, but my lips
refused to form a sound,
Still I stood in that awful, black si-
lence, chilled with fear, until, with a
mighty effort 1 reached out my arm
over the grave, and grasped—a hand,
velvety it was, and how small,
that 1 lingered there to reflect upor
these novel qualities in the hand of &
ghost—and an old witeh at that—foi
you altogether mistake my bravery ix
supposing it; but it wis aller 1 hac
cleared the wall at a bound and wa
out on the moonlit road, walking at 3
rattling good pace toward town that |
recalled it.
From a state of intense cold, 1 hal
changed to burning beat. The toucl
of those small fingers thrilled mw
through with an electric shock, and |
walked faster still in my excitement
Gradually the consclousness forced
my clenched hands,
wh
that of a beutiful young girl with
but words fill me; only she was far
from ghastly, but was as warm, and
substantial, and full of life as that hand
had seemed t4 be.
The fire-ircss fell with an unearthly
clatter and startled me out of my
dreams. I vent to bed to soothe my
nerves with seep, and lay awake most
of the night with the lamps all burn-
ing.
Fortune smipd upon me from that
night. Two years of busy city life had
passed, and dd Barbara's talisman
was still unreclimed, when one day—
Do you believe in love at first sight?
Well, if the firg appearance of Walter
Wyman’s sisteshad not conquered me,
as she stcod uiler the parlor lamps, a
revelation of jeauty and youth, the
touch of her hnd when she welcomed
her brother’s riend would have en-
slaved me forever. Never had a touch
go thrilled me since—since 1 had held
the witch's hnd in the graveyard.
I'he same peculiar shock passed through
me, and the pemory of that spectral
night came ovr me like a flash,
But I did mt start out to tell a love
story. Let mi briefly say that I fell in
love, and thatl acted just like all lovers
have done sire the world began. It
doesn’t mattr mugh about a man’s
age, At twaty-seven, he will conduct
himself prety much as he would have
done at seventeen, and so I wrote
verses, and aghed, and tormented my-
self with a housand hopes and fears,
and grew ht and cold by turns, and
wonderfully timid, and prided myself
upon conceaing it all, when, asa matter
of fact, the state of my feelings were
perfectly apmarent to all my acquain-
tances.
Matters were in this interesting
state, wher one day an opportunity
occurred ofwhich I availed myself with
Ballet Girls.
A reporter had a talk with Mr, Grif.
fith, business manager of *Jalma,” the
other night, and learned some curious
things about ballet dancers.
**They are an amiable set of girls, as
a rule.” sald Mr, Grifiith; **much better
natured than singers, Most of them
are I talians; some are English, Occa-
sionally you find them married, but
they always leave their husbands in the
old country, They are paid from $50
to $150 a week and their traveling ex-
penses,’
**Do you have much trouble in getting
local dancers?”
“Not a great deal. [It depends,
though, upon where you go. Inthe
South it is harder to get women to go
upon the stage than it is in the North
and East. We always advertise for
twice as many women as we want,
Very frequently well-connected girls,
who have limbs and forms of which
they are proud, come to us and are
willing to go on the stage for nothing.
It is a frequent occurrence to have par-
ents coming to us to search for their
daughters, >emetimes they write let-
ters and send photograghs. These girls
#0 under assumed hames, which
makes it all the more difficult to detect
them.”
‘How do the forms of Louisville girls
compare with those of the girls of other
cities?”
“Very favorably. The best developed
and brightest girls we have had were
in Baltimore, In Cincinnati we had
good girls, The limbs of the St. Louis
girls seem to have run to feet, It is
more difficult to get giris to go on the
stage mn Louisville than any other city
we have been in.” ” :
*‘Is there much padding among the
ballet dancers?”
“None at all. The girls who pad
a degree of skill and presence of mind
that {am poud of to this day. It all!
came abou through my asking
young lady f she believed in ghosts,
a] sald
laughing, my
rience,” gi
Leave a woman alone make an
evasive answer, Of course, I implored
an explandion, and she related to me
the followiig story:
the
I should,”
considering
Suppeso
‘i
she,
expe- §
to
“It wasabout two years ago when a
party of gtis, just home from school,
were visitng a friend in the country.
One of th girls bad heard a foolish old |
story aboit a witch's grave, and some |
nonsense ibout her annual appearance,
and a talbman, and when I expressed
my incredulity, they braved me to put
it to th: test. What is the matter?
A little town called Ad-
lington,
*Fooishly I accepted their challenge,
It was so dark 1}
my haad, I was so benumbed with
fear that I could not ery out, but could
only fi; through the lonely graveyard
where my trembling companions were
awaitihg me in the field. It was a
foolist adventure, for I fell ill, and it
cost ne a valuable ring which was left
to we by poor Aunt Barbara, ‘Forher
little namesake,’ she sad, when she
sent 4 across the sea (0 me, Y ou see, |
the dng was a httle large for my finger |
and was pulled off by—by"? ee
“By me,” I interrupted, taking the
¢ trom my pocket.
It was time for Barbara (1 forgot to |
be startled
say that 1 came |
I told my |
lost rin
Lo
I hope I may
light fell into the uollow of my up story in a very impressive way; lingered |
raised hand, and I saw there a glittet over the effect of the witch's hand on |
ing ring set with flashing stones. Th my heart; spoke of the good fortune
icicles began slipping down my bac the talisman had brought me; made a !
again, and I hurried on. very pretty allusion to Barbara the |
Some persons may be inclined to d¢ wilch reclaiming her own—{or was she
ride my nervousness on this occasior not a witch, after all, as I could testify, |
but I assure such that I am not nate having felt her charms?—and, finally, |
rally a timid man. I have a medi not only offered to return the ring, but
hanging in my room at home whic to give myself into the bargain. i
asgerts that I am not a timid man, anc She took both, i
above all, 1 had alwaysbeen particularl ————— i
devoid of superstitious fear; but trut : :
compells me to say that L not oni
lighted all the lights on reaching m
room at the little inn that night, bu
turned them very high into the bargain
and that I made a systematic inspectiol
of all the closets, and removed from it
peg & long cloak that was hanging in
very suggestive position on tae wal
This done, I sat down-—with my bac
against the wall—and examined tu
ring.
It was a quaint old ring, curiousi
carved and massive. The setting wa
composed of several small colores 304 others.
stones set in a circle about a larg Many of our readers will ever hold in
diamond. My financial circumstance remembrance the sweet fragrance of
had rendered it unnecessary for me t; the white water-lily, so common in
acquaint myself with precious stone €V&Y clear, quiet country pond. If
and their value, so that 1 could oni they only knew how easily it could be
surmise that tie ring was somewha cutivated, we believe that very many
valuable. Considering the excited con of them would prepare and be quite as
dition of my nerves at this time, it wa poud of their water-lilies as of any of
not strange that I should start whe their other floral premises. The roots
my eye fell upon the name that was ix S2¥ pe easily obtained from the dealer’s
scribed in quaint letters inside the rin 80d sent by mail, packed in damp moss.
Barbara.” The roots should be kept constantly
moist until planted.
I sat and mused upon the whole ac
venture; what the crone had told me- To do that take an old tub, or barrel
two, that will hold water, set
the graveyard. the ring, (this was sawed in
turned to me the oftenest) the thrillin it either on top or in the ground, one.
touch of that small hand in the dar) thira filled with a mixture of garden
ness soil, sand and well-rotted manure. The
Perhaps 1 should say t here tha roots should be set in this gnixture, and
I called myself an old ielor, an water added in small quantities, so as
bad never been in love—that is, wit not to disturb the earth, until the tub
any mortal. I did not think I was d¢is filled. Very soon the handsome
void of sentiment or f for I ofte round leaves, four or five inches in di.
dreaued of love, and
Cultivating the White Water Lily, i
In the superbly-kept gardens of Eu-
mpe the aquarium or tank for water
plants is an important feature, and adds
greatly to the beauty of the grounds,
But even where the premises are small,
a well-kept tank on a much larger scale
than the ordinary parlor aquarium is a
very pleasing object, and we have many
attractive plants which would render
ther very interesting and beautiful
for example, the arrow head, the calla
ped beaut) ameter, will make their appearance and
ful things of my own fancy; but my fll the iub, The loss of water by
life bad been thrown among Goys an oratiov should
men, and woman was far away and to ti
mystery. A motlerless home, a ster appea’
father, a hard-werking student Ife ux beauty
Sollsgia, a sitanger or brent talked
reputation in a city —ony
can perceive how be that I hay
made few acquaintances among women
her earnestness, and sincere
can’t dance, It is impossible, There
is very little padding on the stage any-
The stories about Very
*
it are
there much iealousy
‘
i
“you do nothing of the kind, I like
to see you enjoy yourseif; 1 should be
unhappy were you to do otherwise than
Just exactly as you do,’
“God bless you, little wife,” cried the
now subjugated husband ‘from this
moment you have no faults in the
world. Indeed, you never had a fault;
1 was joking; don’t remember a word
1 said!” And he kissed away the tears
that trembled in the little woman's
eyes,
Never again did the husband scrutin-
ize the tin ware nor examine the dish-
rag—never so much as mention one of
the faults he had enumerated—but soon
after the neighbor women were wont to
say:
*‘It is wonderful how neat Mrs, -—--
keeps everything about her house, Her
tinware is as bright as a new dollar,
and I do believe that she not only
washes, but irons her dish-rags,”” And
the neighbor men were heard to say:
“What a steady fellow ——— has got to
be of late; he don’t spend a dime where
he used to spend dollars, and can ne ver
be kept from home half an hour when
he is not at work. Ile seems to wor-
ship that wife of his.
pi ——
Communism In Paris.
The year ends well for the Republic,
in spite of the declarations of its ene-
mies to the contrary. The Ministry
has thus far carried its point about
Tonquin, and has kept the Radicals out
of power in the Chamber. In tie City
Council of Paris this latter thing has
been more difficult to do. There is a
very strong communistic majority in
Municipal Council, and it is dally
growing bolder. A little while ago it
cut down the various perquisites of
the Prefect of Police, showing, indeed,
a strong inclination not to vole him any
appropriation at all; and now it has
shown its tender respect for the mem
ory of those who were slain in the in-
surrection of 15871 by a vole which has
aroused howls of indignation from the
bourgeoisie, It has voted that the
rgecisie
among
them?" 4
*Yery little; and in that they differ
most jealous set of creatures in the
world, The girls seem to enjoy the life
they lead, and laugh and go on among
themselves during rehearsals after busi.
ness is through.”
“How much do you pay the new girls
whom you pick up in the various cities
where you show?”
“We give them $5 a week and extra
pay for extra services. We don’t pay
for rehearsals,”
Sp ———
That Wife of His,
After haying been married some weeks
it came into the head of a young hus-
band one Sunday, when he had but lit.
tle to ocoupy his mind, to suggest to
his wife that they should plainly and
honestly state the faults that each had
discovered in the other since they had
been man and wife. After some hesita-
tion the wife agreed to the proposition,
but stipulated that the rehearsal should
be made in all sincerity, and with an
other, as otherwise it would be of no use
had opened their eyes. The husband
was of the same mind and his wife
Ile was somewhat
house, it was
Thus urged
he began the recital.
He said:
“My dear, one of the first faults that
that you
neglected the tin ware,
a good deal
My mother
and kept it as bright as a dollar.*’
“I am glad you have mentioned it,
dear,” said the wife, blushing a little;
“hereafter you shall see no spot on cup
or pan. Pray proceed.’
I have also observed that you use
your dish-rags a long time without
washing them, and finally throw them
away. Now, when at home, I remem-
wash out her dish-rags when she was
done using them, and then hung them
up where they could dry, ready for the
next time she would need them,
Blushing, as before, the young wife
promised to amend this fault,
The husband continued with a most
formidable list of similar faults, many
more than we have space to enumerate,
when he declared that he could think of
nothing more worthy of mention.
“Now, my dear,” said be, “you be-
gin and tell me all the faults you have
discovered in me since we have been
married.”
The wife sat in silence, Her face
flushed to the temples and a great lump
came 1n her throat which she seemed to
be striving hard to swallow.
Proceed my dear; tell me all the
faults you have discovered in me; spare
none.”
Arising suddenly from her seat the
little wite burst mto tears, and throw.
ing both arms about her husband's
neck, cried:
“My dear husband you have not a
fault in the world, If you have one
my eyes have been so blinded by my
love for you that so long as we have
been married I never once observed it.
In my eyes you are perfect, and all
that you do seems to be done in the
best manner and just what should be
done.”
“But, my dear,” said the husband,
his face reddening and his voice eo
ing husky with emotion, “just think, I
have gone and found all manner of
£2
hd
I
§?
45s:
in which the soldiers of Lhe
commune were buried in Pere la Chalse
and in other cemeteries of the metropo-
lis shall remain undisturbed for twenty-
five years, Otherwise the graves of the
hapless communists would already have
been “dug over” and the ground pre-
pared for new occupants. In the Paris
cemeteries, unless a family lot or a con-
cesssion be purchased, the dead are al-
lowed to remain undisturbed for only
five vears, The tract in which the
communists were heaped pell-mnell after
the terrible fight in Pere La Chase in
May of 1871 bad not been wanted by
the administration up to the beginning
of this year. *'So,” says a Paris jour-
nal, “people must be distinguished for
rapine, murder and incendiarism if
they wish to rest tranqguilly in their
graves without paying for the privi-
lege.”
The City Councilers are trying to
maks the revolt of 1871 respectable,
This has been their constant aim since
they came into power. Two years
after the fall of the commune any one
wd ventured to say, in a Paris
g-room, that the commune was
e—~that, apart from its exces-
no greater than those
committed during all revolutions—it
was a brave and heroic move—would
have been reproved, and I am not sure
that would have been
offered him, But times change, and
we can now see printed every day in a
score of journals passionate defence of
the commune, and can hear officials
high in place speak of it with reverence
nd tenderness,
“But no such revolt can come again
in our time. The people have not got
arms, nor are there any arsenals, ac-
cessible to Parisians, containing rifles
enough to arm a single corps of a new
communistic army. In 1871, there
were 300,000 men of the National
Guard in Paris! every one with a gun
in his hand: and of this force al least
175.000 men sympathized with and went
over to the commune. To-day the
French people are not free 1 keep
and bear arms, and consequently they
can make no more important revola-
tions,
. 1 “ \
violence not
Inn»
Wealth From Storms,
The gathering of seaweed keeps some
of the farmers of Block Island busy all
the time. The shore of the island is
divided into small portions, to which
each man has the exclusive a, fr
seawead., There is also a public beach,
where any one who will may gather,
The quantity obtained every year is
enormous, The annual crop is estima
ted at $20,000. In a single year, accor-
ding to the census, the quantity gath-
ered was estimated at 6,000 cords, or to
over 10,000 single cart-loads, and each
load has a value of about $2. The weed
18 spread on the land broadcast, or put
in heaps where it undergoes decomposi-
tion, and is used as a manure when the
crops are planted, It is difficult to
imagine what would be done if the
supply were cut off, since not enough
manure ismade on the 1sland to fertilize
the soil, nor are the crops so large as to
.
YOO FOR THOUGHT,
111 news flies apace,
Men prone to tears are good.
Lost time is never found again,
A friend is best found in adversity.
Seed of sin brings a crop of sorrow.
There is nothing but what has an end.
Riches have wings, and grandeur isa
dream,
The hours perish, and are laid to our
charge,
He who wants little, generally has
enough,
It is sometimes as well to forget what
we know,
The noblest mind the best centent-
ment has,
It costs more to avenge wrongs than
to bear them.
To whom God gives employ, He gives
understanding,
The pride of the rich man makes the
labor of the poor.
Prayer and provender never hindered
any man’s jonrney.
Somewomen’s destiny is to love down.
excusingly, pityingly.
He who is not content with a little
will be content with nothing.
Light is the pencil with which God
paints all the hues of creation.
We never deceive ourselves so much
as when we attempt to deceive God,
The poor man is not he who has little
but he who is always desiring more.
There is, by God’s grace, an immeas-
ura.ble distance between late and to
late
The virtue of prosperity is temper.
ance; the virtue of adversity is forti-
tude,
RR AONB 5505 SI
Son samiont
Where there is much pretension much
has borrowed; nature never pre
i
4 i
WENGE,
been
Tell ms what gladdens or
man, and I will tell yon
man he is
No
wk $ o
Wiad t,
cord or cable ¢
bind so fast
thread.
or
single
Time is the stuff out
made, and the narrow bridge th
two eternities,
If you would know one of
secrets of happiness, it isthis: cultivate
shogoniy Yona siny !
cheap pleasures,
}
Lhe mind
Our ancestors may be a greal honos
to us, but it is much better if we an
an honor to them.
Often the world discovers a man’
mental worth only when its injustice
has nearly destroyed him.
Truth—the open, bold, bonest truth
-i8 always the safest, for every one in
any and all circumstances,
Qur faults are like circles in the
water formed by a stone being thrown
in—one produces another.
Self-preservation is the first law of
nature, but too many in this world act
as though it were the only one,
Simplicity, of all things, is the hard-
est to be copied, and ease 15 only to be
acquired with the greatest labor,
There is one topic peremplorily for-
bidden to all well-bred—to all rational
mortals, namely, their gistemper,
All is vanity but what 1s done for the
glory of God. It glitters and it fades
away; it makes a noise and it is gone.
Turner, the painter, was once asked
the secret of his success. He answer-
ed, **I have no secret but hard work.”
To do good which 1s really good, a
man must act from the love of good,
and not with a view to reward here or
hereafter,
We should do by our cunning as we
do by our courage-—we should always
have it ready to defend ourselves, neve:
to offend others.
If any one does youn an injury or
wrong, take it lightly, and Christian
revenge is begun; forgive it, and yow
revenge is finished.
‘Whatever is coming, there is bul one
way to meet it—to go straight forward,
to bear what has to be borne, and to do
what has to be done.
The greatest part of what we say o
do being unnecessary, ¥ a man takes
this away, he will have more leisure
ad less uneasiness,
An old saint sa‘d when his end was
near, “I have studied all my life only
three books—the Bible, my own heart
and the beauties of nature.’’
Faith, like light, should ever be sim.
ple and unbending; while love, like
warmth, should beam forth on every
side and bend to every necessity
On their own merits, modest men are
dumb,
Study yoursell, and most of all pote well
Wherein kind Natnre meast you 10 exoel
If duty really means to pay God his
due, then perfection, sanctity, martyr.
dom, if you will, are nothing more, and
can be nothing greater than duty,
If you wish success in life make per-
severance your bosom friend, experience
sour wise counsellor, caution your elder
rother, and hope your guardian.
The worst untruth of all is that
which begins by making falsehood
like truth, because it will end
with making truth appear like false-
We cannot live on probabilities. The
faith in which we can live braveiy and
die in peace must be a certainty, so far
as it professes to be a faith at all, or it
is mothing.
and & whole legion of evii spirits
ing how to destroy us.
good book and a good woman are