MOOSE’S RURAL NEW-YOBKEB. 
Her prayer finished she arose, anil, look¬ 
ing not back nor faltering, she reached the 
bank of the stream, and would have plunged 
therein had not a strong arm held her back, 
and a low, sweet voice whispered these 
words in her ear, “Hot thus, sister! Take 
not thy life into thine own hands, lest God, 
who gave it thee, be angered. 
Turning quickly, Alice Day stood face 
to face wit h one of those good angels who 
suffer with those who suffer—a 44 Sister of 
Charity.” Clad in the garb that is usually 
worn by those who have adopted this holy 
calling, a soft smile stealing over her face, 
betokening peace within, she did indeed do 
honor to the name she bore. 
“ Who are yon, and by what right do you 
hold me here ? 1 do not wish to live. Far, 
far better you had let me go. It had been 
over then." 
“ Ah, my child, I once thought as you do 
now. The scene was much the same as Mile; 
perhaps our sorrows have heeu alike, too. 
Ten years,” she said, musingly, “ten years 
ago, and by this very stream, I, too, would 
have taken my life. Hut Goj> sent a minis¬ 
tering angel to my side and stayed me from 
this sin. If you are homeless, come with 
me. In a few days you will think better of 
this and thank me for thus interfering with 
your plans.” 
Alice Day suffered the Sister of Charity 
to replace the cloak about her and arrange 
her bonnet without one word of remon¬ 
strance, and when she gently led her away 
from the scene of the last few moments she 
did not refuse to follow her. 
Through pleasant paths and over beaute¬ 
ous bills the Sister wandered with the fair 
young girl whose life she hud but just saved, 
until they reached a pleasant cottage which 
had been purchased as a homo for tin; Sis¬ 
ters of Charity. That it, would not be pleas¬ 
ant for this poor weak girl to see any of 
the inmates Of this homo until site had be¬ 
come more calm, the Sister felt and knew, 
and so she kindly took her to her own room, 
and throughout t he silent hours of the night 
sought by prayer and gentle words to bring 
back peace to this troubled soul. 
When the morning had dawned Sister 
Agnes stele gently away from the woman 
she supposed to be calmly sleeping. But 
sleep had not come to Alice Day, and 
when she found that she was alone she arose 
and, having dressed herself, went out into 
the opennir. 
It was a favored spot whereon this cot¬ 
tage stood. The seeuerj' all about it was 
of wondrona beauty. At the back stood a 
fine grove of chestnut trees, from out which 
the feathered songsters could be heard In 
one continuous roundelay. At the foot; of 
the hill, facing the cottage, lay a calm and 
placid sheet of water, upon whose bosom no 
boat glided to ruffle or disturb its stillness. 
And fat over the hills beyond the golden 
sunlight was struggling through partial rifts 
in the clouds, and shedding its rays in un¬ 
broken beauty upon the lake. Alice Day 
drank nil this beauty in, as one in a dream. 
“What should she do here?” None but 
t he pure and good should dwell in a place 
like this. 
She was aroused from the reverie into 
which she had fallen by the same tender 
soul that had saved her by the water’s side 
from self-destruction, asking her “To conic 
into the house and rest.” 
“ Rest! ” she echoed, “ Rest! Shall I ever 
rest again? ” 
“ Yes, my child, when the excitement has 
gone you will fiud rest. * He giveth his be¬ 
loved rest,’ and you are one of these. Christ 
came into the world to save sinnerx, not the 
good.’ 
Alice Day was too weak to return an an¬ 
swer to this. The excitement was fast 
wearing off, and utter prostration was taking 
its place. When the day had passed, and 
the soft moon came again with its pale 
splendor, struggling t hrough the white cur¬ 
tains of the room which had been given her, 
its rays fell upou a group of women seated 
by the bedside of one whose look was more 
that of a spirit than “ of the earth, earthy.” 
II.—In the Hospital. 
Three years have passed since the moon¬ 
beams fell upon the face of Alice Day, and 
the Sisters of St. Ursula watched by her 
bedside. The spot whereon their home had 
nestled like some white-winged bird, bore 
no trace of its former peace-like beauty. 
The fences were broken to the ground, its 
blinds hung by one hinge, and all around 
was the very picture of desolation. No Sis¬ 
ter, in her simple garb, could be seen about 
the shaded grounds now, nor could the ves¬ 
per song be hoard at early eventide. 
War, grim war, was in the land, and every¬ 
where the grim monster Death rode his pale 
V horse, and guided his steps with relentless 
hand. Sous, stricken down in lhe pride of 
their manhood, lay ghastly and dead upon 
many a battle-field; while in hundreds of 
households could be found mothers, liko 
“ Rachel weeping for her children because 
they were not. The hospitals were filled 
with the wounded and dying, and through¬ 
out the length aud breadth of the land the 
new-made widow’s tears were falling, and 
hearts were breaking day by day. Those 
who were in the hospitals during the late 
war will bear me witness that T speak but 
truth when I say, that among all the throng 
of noble men and women who came to caro 
for the suffering ones, none were more effi¬ 
cient, self-sacrificing, or utterly regardless 
of self, or fearless of danger by contagion 
with disease, Ilian the Sister of Charily, 
who, with noiseless steps, glided iu and out 
among the long lino of beds, stopping to 
smooth a pillow here, or to apply cool water 
to the parched lips of some sufferer a little 
further on ; who watched night after night 
without sleep, and fainted not at their 
work. 
la one of the wards of the general hos¬ 
pital at Washington lay a young man, ap¬ 
parently about twenty-seven. He had been 
wounded at Spottsylvania, in the left knee, 
and in such a manner as t o cause intense 
pain, from which he was not free a moment. 
So the surgeon iu charge had ordered that 
an opiate should he given him, in order that 
he might obtain rest, without which it was 
impossible for him to recover. It was 
necessary that this opiate should he ad¬ 
ministered frequently, as the intensity of 
(he pain was such as to overcome even a 
much stronger opiate than the surgeon had 
deemed it advisable to give, in the weak 
state of the young man. Hence some one 
must be found who could remain by his 
bedside during t he whole day, and, if neces¬ 
sary, the night. All the men were needed 
to carry upon stretchers to a building some 
half mile distant, a boat load of wounded 
soldiers who had that morning arrived, and 
for whom there was not room in thageneral 
hospital. 
A Sister of Charity offered her services. 
She “had slept for over two hours,” she 
said, “and would not reqHlre any more rest 
for some time to come." A beautiful faoo 
was that which belonged to this Sister of 
Charity—so beautiful that even the close 
folds of white linen that hid her hair could 
not rob it of even a tithe. She seated her¬ 
self by the bedside of the wounded soldier, 
and busied herself in preparing lint from a 
pile of linen which lay at her side. The 
soldier slept well for some hours; then, as 
the opiate gradually lost its power, lie 
Opened his full blue eyes and met those of 
the Bister of Charity looking earnestly into 
his. As she felt that his gaze was full upon 
her, she gave a quick start, and would have 
left his side, had he not said, in words that 
sent a thrill through her very soul, “ Alice 
Day, what do you here, and dressed us a 
Sister of Charity ? Have you gone mad ?" 
“No, Dallas, I am not mad,” she an¬ 
swered, quickly, "though Heaven knows 
you once nearly made me so.” 
“Then why do you wear this garb?” he 
aslccd. 
" Because, when you cast me from you, 
and I would have taken my own life, ouo of 
the Sisters of the Order to which I now be¬ 
long saved that life, which, without your 
love, 1 considered worthless." 
“ Alice!—Alice Day! I have repented 
of that mad fit of passion, and when the 
war had ended would have claimed you for 
my wife. Did you receive the letter which 
1 wrote after my enlistment?” he asked. 
“Too late, too late, Dallas, comes this 
avowal to me. 1 have promised before God 
aud man to renounce the world with all its 
pomp and vanities, and 1 will keep my 
word. The life that you once claimed I 
would have thrown away. The life that 
was saved belongs to God.” 
“ And the letter?—” 
“No, I did not receive any. I never went 
into the town again after that fearful day 
when you left me forever.” 
“But, Alice, surely you are not lost to 
me forever. Cannot this Order absolve you 
from your vows ?’ He forgot his pain now, 
in his eagerness. “You must and shall be 
mine! 1 have learned that what you told 
me then was true. May God forgive me for 
my unjust, treatment of you in the past.” 
“ Oh, why do you tell mo this now?” she 
said. “The time was when 1 could have 
been your wife; but now, never— never!’’ 
And Alice Day lay on the tioor, while 
Dallas screamed for help. Help came in 
the person of Sister Agnes, she who had 
saved Alice from the committal of that 
fearful crime. As she entered the room her 
e 3 'es fell upon the name of Dallas Reeves 
on tne narrow board at the head of his bed, 
and i L.en she knew all—for Alice had told 
her the name of him she loved, and for 
whom she would have died. 
Sister Agnes had Alice conveyed to an¬ 
other part of the building, and at evening 
she found her better, and advised her to 
quit forever the roof that sheltered her 
lover. Alice obeyed. She knew that in 
the future Dallas Reeves was us lost, t o 
her as though he were dead. But she would 
bear this cross without one murmur, hard 
as it would be. 
Dallas Reeves never left that bed of 
pain alive. The excitement brought on a 
fever which terminated his life in a few 
weeks. His last words were, “Alice, my 
beloved, meet me in Heaven.” 
Alice Day— sweet Sister Alice, as she 
is called —still lives. Through all weather 
she may bo seen wending her way upon 
some errand of charity, and there Is scarce 
a poor family for miles around but blesses 
her name. She never mentions the name 
of Dallas Reeves, now, even to herself. 
But in the innermost recesses of her heart 
is enshrined a pleasant memory of what she 
might have been had she not become a Sis¬ 
ter of Charity. 
-- 
CUPID ON THE WING. 
romantic elopement. 
Sha khpeare must have had an intuitive 
impression of the character and require¬ 
ments of the youthful heart, when he made 
the beneficicnt contribution of comfort and 
encouragement to the future generations of 
unfortunate lovers l>y coining that maxim 
of hope, that “ All’s well that ends well.” 
A very pleasant private reception at one 
of our principal hotels the other evening, 
was the result of a deep faith in this senti¬ 
ment, aided, perhaps, by an application of 
woman’s wit and a man’s courage and per¬ 
severance. 
Charlie R-Is a dashing, jolly young fel¬ 
low, twenty-four years of ago, a graduat e of 
a Canadian University, aud a general favor¬ 
ite. He sojourned in this city last winter, 
being connected with a prominent insur¬ 
ance Company, and made many friends; but 
following an impulse, ho emigrated south, 
and next turned up in New Orleans, where 
he met with flattering business success. But 
business success could not cure his heart¬ 
ache, which had been effected during a visit 
to Now York city, where Cupid had pene¬ 
trated his heart with an arrow dipped in the 
affection of one of the fairest Knickerbocker 
belles. The existence of an obnoxious guar¬ 
dian, who didn’t see matters in that partic¬ 
ular light, was the thorn in that young 
man’s side, and to add to his discomfiture 
he received u touching appeal from t he ador¬ 
able, informing him that the obdurate rela¬ 
tive was endeavoring to force her into a 
marriage with a rich old chap whom she de¬ 
tested, and bidding her Charles hie to the 
rescue. Ho hied, and landed iu New York 
only to find the object of his passion Immur¬ 
ed in a boarding-school, and guarded by a 
big brother. But “ Love laughs at lock¬ 
smiths." 
A skillful stratagem soon procured them 
an interview. A few hurried preparations 
were made, n reverend gentleman called 
into service, the residence of a mutual 
friend appropriated for the occasion, a cer¬ 
emony performed, and the happy couple 
were off for the West and sunny South. 
Indignant relatives were violent at first , but 
finally became reconciled, and intercepted 
the happy party with a telegram of forgive¬ 
ness, and an invitation to return. The cul¬ 
prits, however, are in no haste to conclude 
their tour, and will not return till after 
visiting New Orleans and other places of 
interest. 
They have every reason to believe that 
“All’s well that ends well .’'—Cincinnati 
Post. 
- * 
THREE THINGS. 
Theee things to love: courage, gentle¬ 
ness, and affection. Three things to ad¬ 
mire: intellect, dignity and gracefulness. 
Three things to hate: cruelty, arrogance, 
and ingratitude. Three things to delight 
in: beauty, frankness, aud freedom. Three 
things to wish for: health, friends, and a 
contented spirit. Three things to like: 
cordiality, good humor, and cheerfulness. 
Three things to avoid: idleness, loquacity, 
and llippant jesting. Three things to culti¬ 
vate : good books, good friends, and good 
humor. Three things to contend for: hon¬ 
or, country, and friends. Three things to 
govern: temper, tongue, and conduct. 
Three things to think about: life, death, 
and eternity. 
-♦♦♦- 
An honest man lives not to the world, but 
to his own conscience. 
MAY ^ 
There is a rainbow in the cloud 
That overhangs the grave ; the shroud 
Is tinged with Its meek glory hues: 
And for the dead there Is good news. 
The man is weary and weak and old; 
His heart Is drowsy and numbed with pain: 
He falls asleep; he Is still and cold ; 
He never will wake or rise again. 
So sinks the sun ; so foils the leaf; 
So the flowers unfold and fade; 
So the beautiful, frail and brief, 
In the dreary, wintry grove are laid. 
But do not ireep; though the sun may sleep, 
And dork and cloudy may be the night; 
For the day will break and the sun shall wake. 
And scatter the clouds with his morning light. 
And so the leaf; find so the flowers ; 
Winter is drear and daik and cold; 
But Spring will come, with her sun and showers, 
And leaves and blossoms again unfold. 
Then do not, weopneither dark nor deep 
The grave should be, to believing eyes; 
The Lord hath risen ; liutli broken tiie prison ; 
And oil that sleep in the grave shall rise. 
-- 
“SHALL I TAKE HIM IN'?” 
There ho lies—there in the snow, with 
the fierce winds howling around him. And 
so young, scarce twenty, and yet dead to all 
the world around him; killed by that de¬ 
mon Alcohol. Dead—killed, did 1 say ? No, 
even an 1 look fit him lying there in the 
snow, I can see that, he breathes. But shall 
T lake him in? No, he’s drunk; let him 
remain! But then I think of a fond 
mother watching for her poor, erring boy— 
of some fond sister, whose prayers go up to 
the great, Redeemer for her wayward 
brother. Yes, I’ll take him in; and us lie 
recovers from his drunken stupor. I’ll offer 
him the pledge. I’ll speak of Christ, the 
Redeemer of fallen man, to him; I’ll try to 
raise him to a higher and nobler life. Per¬ 
haps I shall be able to make a niau of him 
yet. God knows; I don’t. 
Christian reader, is there such an one in 
your quiet little village? Is there not sotno 
.young man that you can give some word of 
encouragement to seek the narrow path 
again — that 30U can help to leave the bar 
room and the gaming table? Menzer B. 
Whitney’s Point, N. Y., 1872. 
-- 
SIMPLICITY. 
Krummacher illustrates simplicity by 
the following fable : 
The angel who takes care of flowers, and 
sprinkles dew over them in the still night, 
slumbered on a spring day in the shade of a 
rosebush. When he awoke, he said: 
“ Most beautiful of my children, I thank 
thee for the refreshing odor and cooling 
shade. Could you now ask 11113' favor, how 
willingly would I grant it!” 
“ Adorn me, then, with a new charm,” 
said the spirit of the rosebush, in a beseech¬ 
ing tone. 
Bo the angel adorned the loveliest of flow¬ 
ers with simple moss. Sweetly it stood there 
in its modest attire, the moss rose, the most 
beautiful of its kind. So the costliest orna¬ 
ments are often the simplest. There is no 
gold, nor jewel, nor sparkling pearl, equal 
to the “ ornament of a meek and quiet spir¬ 
it, which is, in the sight of God, of great 
price.” 
-- 
GOLDEN WORDS. 
Very near together are hearts that have 
no guile.— Confucius. 
IjET us have unspoken creeds, and these 
quick and operative.— Alcott. 
The gods themselves cannot help a man 
who loses opportunities.— Chinese Proverb. 
Prayer and religion are one and insep¬ 
arable ; as much as there is of one, so much 
of the other. — Hedge. 
Whoso would climb over a staircase of 
subjected men into a lonely happiness, will 
find it misery when he arrives.— Alger. 
We want more of the tribe of Issachar, 
men that had understanding of the times 
“to know what Israel ought to do;” and 
then we want men to teach Israel what to 
do, and stimulate Israel to do it. 
Prof. Park tells the ministers that when¬ 
ever the Bible is read itt the pulpit the looks 
and tones of a reader are far more appro¬ 
priate than those of a declaimer. The pas¬ 
ta r need not make gestures when the apos¬ 
tle is speaking. 
If the divine earnestness within us only 
shifts and does not die, it matters little 
what becomes of our mere theology; and 
deep-hearted, practical faithfulness is not 
separable long from true-thoughted, practi¬ 
cal faith.— Marttneau. 
