is, though you never saw him, for he went 
away years anti years ago, nobody knows 
where; Deacon Marvyn, sold his great farm 
pretty soon after Dick went away. 1’vc 
heard such talk as that he didn’t turn out 
well; but it’s all a surmlssion, nobody knows, 
and Deucon Maiivyx is too proud a man to 
get anybody to help him keep his secrets. It 
is lonesome enough up to the old house now 
to what it used to be. 
“ Dear me! Ciilok, -where’s that sage? I 
always keep it on the top shelf in that bro¬ 
ken teapot. 
“ Yes, yes! I have found it; as 1 was say¬ 
ing, how’s your grandma? Pretty well? 
Well, that’s a Providence. As T tell John, if 
there’s one thing morc’n another one ought 
to be thankful for it’s good health. I never 
see Polly Brown lay there on her bed for 
weeks, as she does, without saying ‘The 
Lord is good, and I am truly grateful.’ You 
tell your grandma I’m much obliged, and 
will come if I don’t have company. There’s 
your folk’s paper, and a letter that came day 
before yesterday. It’s from foreign parts, 1 
guess. We conld’nf. make out the post-mark. 
I’m awful curious to know; hut John nor 
I couldn’t guess who’d writ. It. ain't your 
Ions lips, a softer expression would come 
into the brown eyes for a moment. But only 
for a moment, and Elsie, though a child, 
knew that some great sorrow which had 
boon long buried had that day come to life ; 
and she puzzled Iter little head over it until, 
in answer to her childish prayer, Gon gave 
her wisdom, as He giveth to all who ask— 
“ liberally, and upbruideth not.” 
CHAPTER II 
lie said ; and he added, “ We had not heard 
from him from that day till this. He was 
a noble boy, and I little thought when he 
sat on my knee j 7 ears ago, as you do now, 
that ho would bring me all this trouble,” and 
he shut his lips together tightly. 
“Don’t, grandpa. But now that he is 
sorry and wants you to forgive him, can’t 
you ?” 
“ No, child ; he is reaping his just reward. 
where everything had been prepared to re- decorum. This is killing to a sensitive house- 
ceive them, they were greeted with such a keeper. She is mistress in this domain. She 
welcome as put all unhappy memories far wants order —pleads for it till silenced hy 
away. In two long sealed hearts there was despair, it may be, and she has a right to 
a new joy. After years of estrangement and have It 
grief through bitterness aud anger there hud It is extremely doubtful whether such 
come peace. The dead past, had been buried driving and rushing and irregularity, when 
so deep that it could never rise again, and it becomes habitual, ever made euough more 
out of its decay had arisen higher types of cheese or hay or beef to pay its cost in wear 
Christian love, patience and mercy. And and tear of vital force. Where women have 
qimvW the lnnroimr wore on The old ‘ As yc HOW > ,I,:U 9,iaU 3 f<3 also reap.’ It is HUl* Klbik went about in her merry way, Insufficient help and such useless trials as 
•\ , ,* ,1 the Lord's doings.” happier than ever, conscious of a new at- these to endure, in addition to all the rest it. 
house-cat lay sleeping on the broad door- 
stone; the lazy sunshine yet poured in 
through the deep cast window; and the tall 
clock in the corner had steadily measured off 
two hours ere either spoke. Then Elsie 
said— 
11 Grandma, shall I get dinner?” 
“Is it. so late, child?” and she put Elsie 
down and rose wearily, as if all her strength 
had suddenly left her. 
When dinner was ready, Mrs. Marvtx 
blew the dinner horn, aud Elsie went down 
to the orchard, as she always did, to meet 
her grandfather. But when he sat her on 
his shoulder for her ride, she could only put 
her arms around his neck, and say, “Dear 
, Q , . ,., (. grandpa! something dreadful has happened.” 
aunt Sally s writm, and wc duln t know of ® * ,,, “ , . . „ ' , 
\V li tt K l/incmn T tv \nr ia »r J Wi 1 1 n r /-■ n n 
anyone else who would be likely to write. 
Well, good morning, if you must be going;” 
and she disappeared through the open door 
with a huge stack of pans in her arms, as 
Elsie commenced her walk home. 
Elsie hud a wise little head, and all the 
way home, as she picked at the great pink 
clover heads Hint nodded to her from among 
the tall grass, she kept wondering why it 
Was that she had never heard of Uncle Dick 
before. The name sounded strangely, and 
she repeated it once aloud, to hoar how iJ 
would seem, but started at, her own voice. 
She had often wondered why all the other 
girls had uncles and she had none, and now 
she wondered if the only one she ever had 
was dead. If he was not dead why didn’t 
he write? Perhaps he had written; per¬ 
haps this letter was from him; and thinking 
so she gazed anxiously at the coarse writing 
on the outside. But she was too little a girl 
to know one letter from another jn writing, 
bo she walked slowly home and into the 
kitchen door without pausing. For once she 
had forgotten to look in her bird’s nest. 
The confusion and work of the early 
morning had given place to quiet and order. 
Mrs. Marvyn was comfortably settled in 
her easy chair for her morning’s rest. As 
she termed it, “she wasn’t so young as she 
once was, and had to take life easy.” The 
Bilile lay open on her lap, and as Elsie 
came in she stopped reading and looked up. 
“Back so soon, child? Why, I have 
hardly had time to miss you. But I’m glad 
you’re back before the sun gets high. Did 
you get the paper ?” 
“ Yes, grandma, and a letterand Elsie 
handed her the stiff yellow envelope. 
“Law suz! it’s so uncommon for me to 
get a letter now-a-days. I wonder what 
Sally’s writ for now.” 
' “ Mrs. Willis says ’tain’t from Sally.” 
“ Tain t V” and she broke the seal eagerly, 
and read, while Elsie hung up her sun-bon¬ 
net, and came and sat down at her feet, 
looking up with a questioning gaze while 
she read. Presently a look of anguish came 
over the face of the old woman, and she 
leaned forward on her hands, rocking baek 
and forth slowly. Elsie sat quietly for a 
moment, and then whispered,— 
“Dear graudma, is it from Uncle Dick?” 
“ Uncle Dick, child! why, who ever called 
him that? who said Dick? who ever told 
you of him?” dwelling with fondness upon 
the name which in happier years she had 
repeated so often that the sound of it now 
came to her like the sad, sweet strains of 
half-forgotten music, heard faintly at first., 
then coming nearer and heard more dis¬ 
tinctly. 
“.Airs. Willis, grandma; and she said he 
was as handsome a boy as she ever saw. 
Was he handsome?” 
“ Handsome! yes, my Dick was. O, child, 
what else did she say?” 
“ Not much ; she always talks, you know, 
and she said he used to be proud-spirited, 
and that no one knew where he was.” 
“ Oh, Dick ! But she doesn’t know where 
this letter came from, does she?” 
“ No; she only happened to speak of him. 
You never told me of him, grandma. Is lie 
a bad man ?” 
“My Dick a bad man! O, what a pretty 
boy! But then, he isn’t a little boy now, 
and my arms are empty, save you, little El¬ 
sie. He is a wicked man, child. You 
“ Why, Blossom! wlint is it? What can 
it be that makes my pet so sober? lias 
Grimes caught a robin and devoured it; or 
has your new doll had a tumble and broken 
licr brittle neck?" and in mimicry he held 
her out and made a very grave face at her, 
just to show her how she looked. And El¬ 
sie, like some older people, grown suddenly 
ashamed of all her little vexations before 
some great sorrow, said, 
“ Please don’t, grandpa ! Indeed, it isn’t 
such a silly thing as that. I am afraid you 
think me. only a little goose, and not wise 
enough to be any comfort to you.” 
“ Why, what is it ails my Ei.sie ?’’ 
“ 1 don’t know just what it is, but grandma 
got a letter this morning, and she has had 
such a terrible look ever since. I am quite 
sure the letter was from Uncle Dick, or 
about him." 
“ Uncle Dick ! who told you of him? Did 
she say so?” 
" Oh, no! But when I asked her if Uncle 
Dick was the handsomest boy in the world, 
she said ‘yes;’ but that, ‘lie wasn’t a boy 
now, only a great wicked man, and that l 
nuisn’t ask any more questions.’ Is it so, 
grandpa 
“ Yes, it is true. Ouy Rickard! Don’t 
ever mention his name again, never lie 
broke his mother’s heart and mine long 
years ago.” 
He put her down on the open porch and 
went into the house with an ominous shadow 
resting on his face. The dinner was steam¬ 
ing ou the t able and the hired men sat down 
and ate. Bui. in the front spare room there 
were hearts too heavy for eating. 
“It is Richard who lias written,” Elsie 
heard Mrs. Marvyn say, aud in a low tone 
the latter read how, now he was dying, he 
wanted, his father's forgiveness. He said he 
should die casiei knowing that his little 
Richard was safe in the old farm-house, 
where he had learned all the good he had 
ever kmvwn in his whole life. There was 
not much more, only a plea for forgiveness 
that should have touched a harder heart than 
Deacon Makvyn’s. When the letter was 
finished, a silence fell upon them all which 
was oppressive 
" The wicked shall not go unpunished,” 
fell from Deacon Marvyn’h lips, finally, and, 
the Lord’s doings.” 
“But” persisted Elsie, “little Richard 
isn’t to blame, and you wouldn’t want to bo 
punished all because some one else had done 
wrong, would you ?” and Deacon Marvyn 
felt two tiny hands clasped tightly around 
his neck. Perhaps the picture of little 
Rickard, young and sweet ns his Richard 
used to be, softened his heart a little. Per¬ 
haps lie yearned lor the sight of the child 
who was his own blood. I do not know; 
but bespoke kindlier than before when he 
said, “Not to-night, Ei.sie; some other 
time.” 
Saturday night came on, and though the 
subject wa9 not mentioned again, yet the 
few seeds scattered that clay by childish 
hands were taking root in the old man’s 
heart, to spring up and bring forth fruit in 
due season. 
Sunday saw the deacon, his wife and little 
Elsie in tlicir accustomed place for worship 
The church was a pleasant country church, 
built more for use than ornament, and the 
good people who worshiped there found it 
more to their taste than the modern ones. 
The pastor was an aged man, who had held, 
out the bread of life to the people there Ibr 
more than twenty years, and on that day, as 
he stood before them with his'white hair, 
and face beaming with tenderness, he looked 
more like an aged patriarch of olden times 
than like the saintly, sincere man lie was. 
lie took tor his text these words:—“ What 
man is there of you whom if his son ask 
bread will be give him a stone? Or if he 
ask a fish will lie give him a scorpion ?” In 
fervent language he spoke of Christ’s love 
for Ilis children, and how through that love 
we might he saved. In simpler language he 
compared the finite love with the infinitude 
of f'itlUHT’8 wonderful patience and long 
suffering, and when he closed there were 
tears in many eyes, 
Elsie could not understand all he said, 
hut the last of the sermon she was sure was 
meant* for those who were not patient as 
they ought to be—like Christ. She looked 
mosphere around her, somehow, yet know¬ 
ing not in how great, a degree those two old 
people felt the truth of those tenderly pro¬ 
phetic words—“ And a little child shall lead 
them.” 
tonal 
opifs. 
OVERWORK. 
BY M. QUINBY. 
I think it might be the truth to say that 
there is no one greater evil among the farm¬ 
ing people of the State than overwork. In 
the old world, where the laborer has no hope 
of ever rising above the condition in which 
he was born, there may also he overwork, 
but it i3 from a different cause. Tltero it 
may bo the only alternative to starvation. 
The man must hear his heavy burden or die. 
Here it ji the very opposite. It is the laud¬ 
able desire to better himself and rise in the 
social scale, that spurs on the American 
farmer to the utmost limit of his strength. 
There the man is born to the burden, here it 
is most commonly self-imposed. And it. is 
no more than we might expect. It siinpl} 7 
illustrates the doctrine of extremes : it is the 
strong rebound of human nature when the 
oppression of ages has been removed. 
But., whatever the cause, the evil remains. 
Liebig says:—“ A Icohol is a bill drawn on 
the laborer’s health, which lie is incessantly 
compelled to renew, as lie has not funds to 
meet it. The bankruptcy of the body is the greatest filial piety, were to sec his 
inevitable result. ’ I hat is, he makes a draft dying, he could not repress a lough if’ 
upon Ids vital capital which cannot be re¬ 
placed. Il is just, so with overwork of body 
or mind. If we use more than the daily in¬ 
come, it is just so much taken from the orig¬ 
inal stock in health and vital forces. The 
body begins to break, the natural defenses 
against disease are thrown down, tlie gates 
are opened, and in such a state of the sys- 
these to endure, in addition to all the rest, it 
is not strange that a very little lime suffices 
to stamp their faces with the unmistakable 
signs of overwork. Then comes the whole 
brood of unamiahle feelings, and very likely 
the reputation of sour temper and peevish¬ 
ness. 
The cure of all this is plain. Don’t let us 
overwork ourselves, nor be the intentional 
or willing cause of the same sin in others. 
-- 
THE JAPANESE AT HOME. 
In a late number of Harper’s Magazine 
the Rev. Lyman Abbott thus chats about 
the Japanese: 
Arriving as we did from China, the land 
of pug noses and yellow skins, we were at 
once struck with the fresh, ruddy com¬ 
plexions, and in many instances well-cut 
features, of the Japanese. Besides the dif¬ 
ference in their personal appearance, they 
Offer a marked contrast to the Chinese in 
manner and hairing. In place ot the cring¬ 
ing, abject demeanor of the latter, they carry 
themselves ns becomes men, fearlessly and 
uprightly, look you straight in the face, 
and consider themselves inferior to none. 
The better class are a fine, bold set of men. 
Like knights of old, they are ever ready to 
aveuge a wrong, or even to provoke a quar¬ 
rel; aud with their terrible, two-lmnded 
swords would be anything but contemptible 
antagonists in hand-to-hand fighting. 
Their manners arc polished in the ex¬ 
treme. As a rule they are exceedingly good- 
natured, and have a keen sense of the ridicu¬ 
lous—rather ton rnneh so; for we believe that 
it tlio most dutiful son, possessed of the 
greatest filial piety, were to sec his father 
dying, he could not repress a laugh if’ the old 
gentleman were to do so in at all a comical 
way. The Japanese ladies arc almost as 
fair-skinned as their sisters of the West. 
Small, but neatly—nay, sometimes faultlessly 
shaped; their flowing robes displaying in its 
own greatness the model tliat nature has 
adopted, and which none of the meretricious 
deceptions of civilization can improve upon; 
in Deacon M vrvyn’s face, ami saw the stern tern there is none of the long category of with pretty, captivating manners and u lan- 
A.r.NHni-. r.A.l!_ Iliil il. _ ^.1.. _ Li ..1-Ml . it... I __ _ 1 _ . .1 J 
expression fading a little ; then she thought 
of little Dick, and his dying father. 
The ride home was pleasant. And when, 
after tea, as they sat in the square front 
room, watching the sun go down, Elsie felt 
it her time to speak, aud going up to where 
Deacon Marvyn was sitting, put both her 
hands softly on his ami, and said,—“ Grand¬ 
pa, can’t you forgive Uncle Dick V— sail yes ; 
phase do say yes" — ho dkl not look at her, 
but turning to where his wife sat he asked, 
“Mother, can you forgive Richard?” 
With her warm, motherly heart, she 
sobbed out,— 
“Yes! yes! I've had forgiveness in my 
heart these many years, but kept it back be¬ 
cause I thought I was doing the Lord's 
will. It is plain to me now that we have 
done wrong.” 
“ Let us pray,” said Deacon Marvyn ; and 
there in the .Tune twilight they knelt and 
physical ills that may not find more ready 
access. Fever or plague may .come floating 
in the air and find the bar down which the 
body in its usual vigor would have kept se¬ 
curely in its place. 
But the more common effects are mental. 
Down goes hope, utterly hopeless. 1 n come 
the “ blues” over the wreck. The sensibili¬ 
ties quiver as if stuck full of red-hot needles. 
gunge musical and soft, as Italian, the laugh¬ 
ter-loving nymphs of Rising Hun have many 
and powerful charms. No one who has been 
in Japan will deny their claim to beauty. 
-- 
HINTS TO TRAVELERS. 
Some one thus gives counsel:— Don’t 
wear your best bonnet, or people will think 
Woe to the unlucky creature that, haj p ms y°» have no better opportunity to display it. 
, in the way! It is bad for anything to be in 
the way 
“ For so somo moral people, strictly loth 
To swear in words, however up, 
Will crash n curse in Beilin* down a cup 
Or through n door-post vent a hanging oath,” 
says comical Hood, with certainly as much 
truth as wit. It is the worst possible con¬ 
dition for the cultivation of the Christian 
graces which do so much for home cheer, 
whatever else may be said of them. 
Plain straw is in better taste. Light colored 
gloves arc an abomination for traveling 
costume. Pack your jewelry in your trunk 
instead of hanging it about your person, and 
don’t judge your fellow travelers by the 
splendor of their dress or the number of yards 
in their mantillas. Disagreeable mistakes 
have been made in this way. 
Don’t deem it useless to be polite to the 
spectacled old lady, or the pale young girl. 
fell from Deacon Marvyn’b lips, finally, and, there in the June twilight they knelt and I believe it Is morally impossible for a They may not belong to the butterfly ranks 
though the voice sounded strange and tin- thanked God for His patience with them so habitually overworked man or woman to °f fashion, but they are none the less capa- 
natural, his stern sense of justiee had not 
once wavered, even though it was his own 
son who stood knocking at his heart. Elsie 
was frightened for an instant., hut summon¬ 
ing all her courage, she crept into his lap, 
and laying her soft cheek against his said, 
“ Don’t you love him, grandpa ? ” 
long, and that at last He had brought them 
to see in his most marvellous light. 
There were happy hearts in the old farm¬ 
house that night, and none I think happier 
than Elsie, who added to her evening prayer 
a petition to the effect that if “uncle Dick 
died God would lake him straight to Ilea- 
bc amiable. You don’t expect one to be 
amiable stung by honey bees, or smarting 
with blisters. And hence the irritable “ I 
can’t help it,” when reproved. True enough, 
no one can help it tinder the conditions. 
But perhaps you are responsible for the 
conditions. If you had not so drained 
ble of appreciating that kind of etiquette 
that comes from the heart. 
Don’t talk and laugh loudly and boister¬ 
ously. Your private affairs may he very 
engrossing to yourself but they can hardly 
be expected to interest the public. 
Don’t load yourself with parasols, baskets, 
“I did once, child, but he wronged me ven, and make little Dick a good boy, and yourself of vital force, or nerve-Dower or faus> parcels, shawls, reticules and hooks. 
.... .. " ' 1 * * rp». „ i_it i_i i «« . 
bitterly—bitterly.” 
“ Is he your enemy ? ” and she looked 
frankly into his gray eyes. 
“ Yes.” 
“But mustn't we love our enemies? I 
think it must be terrible to bate one so 
much that we can’t forgive them. We are 
not quite sure of being forgiven ourselves 
unless we can forgive our enemies. Grandma 
told me so last Sunday, when 1 asked her 
what it meant about forgiving ‘those who 
trespass against us.” 
“ But this is different; this is justice.” 
“ What was it made you hate him so 
first P” 
“ Ob, something you could not understand; 
it happened years ago." 
bring him and his mamma safe to America 
by-and-by.” It brought tears to Mrs. Mar- 
vyn’s eyes as she heard her, and thought how, 
years ago, her little Dick knelt beside the 
same bed and asked God to “ please make 
him a good boy.” She seemed almost to 
touch his soft curls again, as she heard 
Elsie’s prayer, and thought how near he 
seemed to her then. 
The next morning Deacon Marvyn wrote 
and mailed a long letter, tender and for¬ 
giving, which offered a home to little Rich¬ 
ard and his mother. When Richard Mar¬ 
vyn read it, weeks after, on his dying bed, 
he did not know all that the letter had cost, 
or how nearly it escaped the writing. He 
lived but a few days longer, and when he 
died his last thoughts were of home. “ Tell 
father,” said he, “ that though my sins were 
as scarlet yet they were made white as wool 
through the blood of Him who loved us. 
Tell mother to teach little Dick the prayers 
I used to say in my old room, and may he 
fciE. lie is a wicked man, child. A ou “ Please, grandpa, 1 think I could if you died his last thoughts w*re of home. “Tell sometimes refractory, fuel is not always the How often does the stenlthv Blander 
fad^ft ifhSTStofJ?* '‘‘I rV 1Cr , ligUt W °Ti ,ld mC " , , i fathCr \ Sai<1 h *> “ ,hat thon ? U m - v * ins wer ® same » subordinates are often insubordinate. wbence no one Unow dcstroy c Lacter, if 
tailed out ot Jtu paleface, and a hard ex- He passed his rough hands over her soft as scarlet yet they were made white as wool What skill or experience can always hit the not life. Like the good Baldur in the 
pression made the features look grim and brown hair, and with the deep look in his through the blood of Him who loved us, happy medium of rare-done, done or over- Scandinavian Edda who was slain by the 
AnTl'u . , . ., T , CyCS a9 £ (1 r n th /?y gh thC , cha ?f i f g ycars T el1 f otLei * t0 tcacb ^ DlCK tl,e I™ye»s done ? mistletoe the blind Ilodur throw, how many 
And all through that bright June morn- lie saw the face of his son, he told her how I used to say m my old room, and may he Then, in most farmers’ families through a reputation has been destroyed by a slander 
ing, while the birds were singing in the groat years ago, when Richard was a boy, he grow up and be a better man than I have the country, it is often the exception to have springing from shadow 
maples in the door-yard, and the Sun lay in loved wine and cider; how, as he grew been.” Then he died, and they buried him all ready to sit down to a meal at once. One _-_- 
square, yellow patches on the kitchen floor, older, he loved it more, until getting in debt beneath English soil, with nothing near his or two rush in, ready to snatch, like a lntn- Memory presides over the past; action 
the old woman sat, the same hard expression so much he did not dare come home, hut grave that seemed like home, save’the green gry animal, at any eatable the table may over the present. The first lives in a rich 
on her face—with folded hands, rocking back signed his father's name to papers aud ran grass above him, and the blue sky. present, something special to attend to being temple hung with glorious trophies, and 
and forth. Sometimes, when Elsie would away to England. “The farm had to be Aud when, a few weeks later, his wife and the excuse Now others come, and so all by lined with tombs; the other has no shrine 
creep into her lap and kiss the thin, tremu- sold, but the disgrace was what was worst,” little Dick arrived at the old farm-house, detachments, utterly regardless of order and but duty, and it walks the earth like a spirit. 
whatever the name may be, you could have 
helped it easily enough. You would have 
been cheerful and sunn} 7 without thinking 
about it. 
If this be true of the man, how much 
more is it of woman, with her finer tempera¬ 
ment. And I do think that there would be 
far more peevish and fretful housekeepers 
than there are if the sexes could change 
places. Imagine a man managing a woman’s 
wardrobe and that of his family with limited 
means, keeping her legion of household 
duties promptly done, and conducting the 
kitchen to please a fastidious taste. Think 
of what a focus of lines that defy all calcu¬ 
lation a common dinner table is. Here must 
meet butcher, grocer and baker. Stoves are 
sometimes refractory, fuel is not always the 
same, subordinates are often insubordinate. 
What skill or experience can alwaj 7 s hit the 
happy medium of rare-done, done or over¬ 
done? 
Then, in most farmers’ families through 
the country, it is often the exception to have 
all ready to sit down to a meal at once. One 
The less “ hand baggage ” you can get along 
with the better, 
-- 
Fickleness. — Some one has very truly 
remarked:—“When I see thousands on 
thousands of people drifting hither and 
thither at the beck of every odd invitation, 
and reflect how few of them will ever lift 
themselves out of mediocrity, and achieve 
anything noteworthy, either within or with¬ 
out, 1 see plainly what is wanted. It is less 
subjection to fickle impulses and chance 
lures, more sensibility to great prizes, with a 
girded resolution to toil heroically for them 
in that solitude of the soul where the father 
of spirits seeth in secret without mistake, 
and rewardeth openly without fail.” 
