that stamp. Suppose we go over and see 
her to-morrow; it may comfort her to know 
that we prize her friendship ns much us 
ever.” 
“ Yes, I should like to go over,” said Eva. 
“ At what time shall we start ? ” 
“Suppose I call for you about ten; we 
can get to Mollte’s by half-past eleven — 
then we might get lunch somewhere, look 
in at Stewart's and Goutil’s, and still get 
home in lime for dinner. I’ve no engage¬ 
ment. I'or to-morrow.” 
“ Nor 1, either, fortunately,” rejoined Eva, 
—then, after a thoughtful pause, she added: 
“Do you know, Nora, 1 couldn't imagine 
brother Hugh as treating a girl so.” 
“Nor Phil Posh, either?” questioned 
Nora, mischievously. 
“ Nor Phil, either,” assented Eva, blush¬ 
ing — for gentle Eva had a special claim in 
tall, manly Phillip, and of course thought 
him all that was good and noble. 
“ Well, I guess you are right, about Phil,” 
said Nora; “us to ‘ brother Hugh,’ I’m not 
competent to judge.” 
“ Now, Nora," exclaimed Eva, hotly, “ I 
don’t think you do Hugh justice!” 
“ Why, I haven't said anything against 
your august brother,” laughed Nora, “but 
you lcuow lie has been away so long 1 hardly 
know him. I’ve no doubt he is very perfect 
—only, as i said, 1 couldn't judge under the 
circumstances." 
Eva, not at all satisfied with Nora’s doubt¬ 
ful admission, was proceeding eagerly with 
her defense of her pet brother, when a ser¬ 
vant opened the door and announced “ Mr. 
Gordon.” It was Nora’s turn to blush 
now, much to her own indignation, as she 
rose to receive her visitor. Leonard Gor¬ 
don was a slight, lair-haired young man, 
about twenty-five, with moustache ‘ a la Na¬ 
poleon,’ and something very like a sneer 
upon his thin lips. lie had an easy, graceful 
manner, and an almost unlimited supply of 
“small talk,” understood how to render 
those small attractions which tire so gratify¬ 
ing to a woman, and was altogether a most 
acceptable escort among the young ladies. 
Din ing the past winter he had been very at¬ 
tentive to Nora, had indeed quite monopo¬ 
lized her, and rumor had already busily re¬ 
ported their engagement, but no word of love 
bad passed between them, though Nora ac¬ 
cepted his attentions, which were very flat¬ 
tering, and which she hardly knew how to 
refuse. And sometimes when she was startled 
by some light, scoffing remark about things 
she had been taught to respect, she doubted 
if lie was just the friend for her; but his 
company was very agreeable, and she did not 
Stop to consider to what all this might, lead. 
“ I met Miss Ettie at the corner,” said 
Gordon, after greeting the young ladies, 
“ who said she left you in a high state of in¬ 
dignation, and trusted I should he able to 
soothe your ruffled feelings. May 1 know 
what was the subject under discussion?” 
“ She brought us news of the Fairchilds’ 
fiilure,” explained Nora, hesitatingly, “ and 
doubted whether Mr. Courtenay would 
consider himself engaged to Mollie for rich 
or for poor." 
“Not he, if Miss Mollie has to soil her 
pretty hands with work; he is too aristo¬ 
cratic to take to his elegant mansion a ple¬ 
beian bride.” 
“ But why should Mollie he considered 
plebeian, as you call it,” said Nora, earnest¬ 
ly, “just because she is obliged to labor? 
Won’t slic be the same lovely, accomplished 
girl that we have all admired—and far more 
noble ?” 
“ Not in the eyes of the world, and Court¬ 
enay is essentially a man of the world,” re¬ 
plied Gordon, with a shrug of the shoulders 
—adding, sarcastically, “ Aren’t you a little 
Quixotic in your idea of labor’s being so en¬ 
nobling, Nora ?” 
But Noha was too much grieved and dis¬ 
appointed in liim to answer, and sat with 
her eyes bent upon her work and a troubled 
expression about her mouth, till, the silence 
growing painful, Eva sought to iiil up the 
gap in the conversation with that about the 
theatricals. Leonard felt, however, the re¬ 
buke in Nora’s manner, and rose presently 
to depart, without asking to accompany her 
to the rehearsal, as he had intended. 
“ I shall do myself the honor of calling on 
Miss Mollie soon," said he, gravely, as he 
took Nora’s hand. “ Can I take any mes¬ 
sage for you ?” 
“ Thank you,” answered she, brightening, 
“but we are going over, ourselves, to-mor¬ 
row ”—repaying the artful fellow by one of 
her sweetest smiles as he bowed himself out, 
for her geuerous heart was fearful of having 
wronged him and anxious to make amends. 
CHAPTER II. 
Mrs. Christie and Nora lived alone in 
their pleasant, even luxurious, home, the 
husband and father having been killed sud¬ 
denly in an accident on a railroad, of which 
lie was director, about two years previous to 
the opening of my story. He had left them 
abundant means to continue in the style in 
which they had always lived, their business 
affairs being under the care of a Mr. Scud- 
der, his partner in the law office. They 
had never been troubled by any of the minu¬ 
tiae of business. It is true that Mr. Scuddeii 
went through the form of consulting Mrs. 
Christie occasionally, hut she always said 
“ Do as you think best,” and speedily dis¬ 
missed the subject. 
She was a gentle, inefficient woman, some¬ 
what of an invalid, and being very averse 
to exertion of any kind, had already shifted 
most of the household responsibilities upon 
the shoulders of her more self-reliant daugh¬ 
ter; while Nora, hut recently emancipated 
from school, troubled her pretty head with 
no queries as to whence came this steady 
supply of money, but naturally supposed 
that, as it always had, so it always would 
last. 
Nora and her mother were sitting in the 
library one morning, the latter reading aloud 
while the former busied herself with a gay 
piece of embroidery. It was a cheerless day 
without ; the chill November wind tore up 
clouds of dust, and pedestrians gathered 
their cloaks closely about them, shivering in 
anticipation of the snow-storm that brooded 
in the leaden clouds. Tt was a day in which 
no one would choose to he abroad, and the 
cozy library looked all the more cheerful in 
contrast to the outside gloom. Theglowing 
coals in the grate sent forth a genial warmth, 
while the rich, dark mouldings, quaintly 
carved mantel, well-filled book cases, and 
inviting easy chairs scattered about, imparted 
an air of luxury to this room—which was a 
favorite with both Nora and her mother, 
and in which they usually sat when alone, 
and even received their most intimate friends. 
The how-window was filled with plants, a 
rustic basket nearly covered with drooping 
vines and gaily-tinted foliage plants stood 
near, and a beautiful tortoise-shell cat lay 
purring contentedly on the vug before the 
fire. Mrs. Christie bad jusl paused to com¬ 
ment on a passage in “ Katbrina” which she 
had been reading, when a servant entering 
informed her that Mr. Scudder was in the 
drawing-room. 
“ Bring him right nphere, Edward,” said 
she to the colored lad who occupied the po¬ 
sition of footman in their modest establish¬ 
ment—then added, raising her voice os he 
was closing the door, “and, Edward, bring 
up some cake and wine presently. He must 
he cold and tired,” she went on to Nora; 
“ i wonder what can have brought him out 
tliis dreadful day.” And even while she 
was speaking the lawyer entered the room. 
He was a spare, elderly man, with keen eyes 
hut a kindly mouth, and the courtly manners 
of “ ye olden time." After greeting the la¬ 
dies he sank wearily into an easy chair which 
Nora had placed for him, and remained so 
long gazing silently into the fire that Mrs. 
Christie grew impatient to know his er¬ 
rand, and broached the subject thus: 
“ You are very courageous to venture out 
to-day; your business must have been 
urgent?” 
“ Yes,” he said, turning slowly towards 
her, and she, noticing for the first time the 
trouble in his eyes, questioned anxiously— 
“ Has anything gone amiss?” 
" Yes, madam," he answered again, sadly; 
then seeing how alarmed she grew, he 
thought it best.to come to the point, at once, 
and said, abruptly, “Robinson & Son have 
failed!” 
“ Why, they were our hankers 1” exclaimed 
Nora, while her mother sank back, perfect¬ 
ly overcome. 
“ Yes, my child,” said Mr. Scudder, turn¬ 
ing to her, feeling instinctively that she was 
the stronger of the two; “and I’m sorry to 
say that all your property was in their hands. 
I was very careless not to have divided it 
among different banks—it is never safe to 
trust your all in one boat—Imt it is Just ns 
your father placed it, and their’s was consid¬ 
ered one of the safest houses in tin: city.” 
“Did you say everything was gone?” 
asked Nora at length, anxiously. 
“ No; you have this house and some West¬ 
ern lands ; 1ml these have not risen in value 
as your father hoped, and i don’t see how 
you are going to keep up the house.” 
“ Wc must sell it then,” said she, prompt¬ 
ly. “There are some debts that must be 
paid, and the remainder will support us till 
I can find something to do.” 
“ But what can you do, my child, brought 
up as you have been ?” 
“ I don’t know, I’m sure, but girls as inex¬ 
perienced as 1 have found ways to support 
themselves, and so must I.” 
“ Bravely said !” exclaimed the admiring 
lawyer, “hut I have a better plan to pro¬ 
pose. Come and live with me. Sister Jane 
and I are lonely in our big house, and I 
owe you that much reparation for my care¬ 
lessness.” 
“Oh, you are too kind!” cried Nora, her 
eyes filling with tears, “ but iudeed ! indeed, 
we could not he so dependent on even you. 
Could we, mother?” 
“Oh, I don't know," sighed her mother, 
helplessly; “ do what you think best, child.” 
“ Oh, uo 1” repeated Nora, seeing that she 
must expect no counsel from her mother^ 
“ let me try wliat I can do, and if I cannot 
succeed, we shall be glad to thiuk of your 
generous offer.” 
“ Well, I suppose you must be allowed to 
try, but I’m afraid it will be harder than you 
think; and remember, always, if you find it 
too * up-hill work,’ that you both are wel¬ 
come to a home with us. No! no thanks; 
it would really be a favor to us. And now, 
my dear young lady, what do you propose to 
do, anti how can I help you ?” 
“It seems to me, the first thing to be 
done," said Nora, thoughtfully, “ is to sell 
the house aud furniture; further than that, 
1 am all adrift, it has beeu so sudden, 1 
must have time to think. Must they be sold 
at auction ?” 
“ Certainly not. I will arrange it quietly, 
and in the meantime, select, what you wish 
to reserve, and I would advise you to keep 
all that you may by any possibility need, as 
it will be much more economical, besides 
making your new quarters seem more home¬ 
like. You will board, of course?” 
“ Yes; for the present, at least. But 
wouldn’t it be better to find something to 
do before looking for a boarding place?" 
" Certainly ; and do not be in too great a 
hurry. Think it over carefully, and I will 
do wlnit I can, and sec you again iu a day 
or two. And, my dear madam, do not be 
so cast, down,” crossing over to where Mrs. 
Christie sat with her handkerchief over 
her eyes, and taking her nerveless hand in 
bis; “ it fills me with remorse to see you so 
overcome. Be thankful you have such a 
brave daughter; and really, I think you 
will have enough left to make you quite 
comfortable; and at any rate, you have a 
home awaiting you with us whenever you 
are ready to accept it.” And with a gen¬ 
tle pressure of the unresponsive hand lie 
held, the kind-hearted lawyer took his 
leave—and none loo soon, for Nora, hope¬ 
ful as she strove to appear before him, was 
really longing to lie alone, that she might 
give way unrestrainedly to the hitter grief 
that assailed her at the thought of leaving 
her beautiful home. Taking refuge in her 
own room, and throwing herself on the 
floor with her head buried in the cushions 
of a chair, a stormy burst of tears cased 
somewhat her aching heart.and she sat a long 
time with her hands clasped about her knees, 
considering ways and means, till, lier heart 
reproaching her for leaving her poor mother 
so long alone, she sprang up, and bathing 
lu-r eyes and burning checks, went down 
stairs. She found her mother as she had 
left her, apparently stupefied by the sudden 
shock. And uo wonder! All her married 
life had been spent in this house; here, she 
had come, a happy bride; here had she 
borne her children, and the house was full 
of lender memories of tho two who had 
“gone before;” here, the mangled remains 
of her husband bad been brought; from 
these broad portals had he been borne to 
That low, green tent 
WtiOSi- 1 ‘iii liihS never out wal'd swing*, 
and here had she hoped to end her days. 
And now she must not only leave this home 
with its sweet and sad associations, hut with 
it luxury, and perhaps even comfort, behind 
her. It was hard, and she nould do nothing 
hut moan and lament. Nora's heart ached 
for her, and she left weighed down .by the 
responsibilities thus thrust upon her, but at 
the same time it roused her from her own 
selfish grief to know that, her mother de¬ 
pended upon her. And now that dreadful 
question, “ What can I do to tarn a living?” 
began to haunt her, as it has many a woman 
before Iter. It seemed easy of solution at the 
first glance, imt as she went over the differ¬ 
ent vocations that women follow, she began 
to fear she was fitted for none. Her mother 
rather insisted upon her teaching music if 
she must do anything; but though she was 
an excellent performer on the piano, and 
was competent to give at least, rudimentary 
lessons, she felt that she had no gift for im¬ 
parting wllftt she knew to others, and that 
it would lie tho most, nerve-wearing drud¬ 
gery. Still she determined to keep her 
piano, so that should nothing else offer she 
could enter the already overcrowded list of 
music teachers. 
“ While she was turning all this over in 
her mind one day, her eye happened to fall 
on an advertisement offering instruction in 
telegraphing at the Cooper Institute to 
Young women wlio would accept situations 
in the city. This at once struck her as 
feasible, and after consulting her mother, 
who only feebly objected, having nothing 
better to offer, she went over to make ar¬ 
rangements for entering this school, This 
was soon satisfactorily accomplished, and 
returning wearied from her long ride (for 
she was not yet sufficiently used to poverty 
to walk to savtJa sixpence), she found Eva 
and Hugh sitting with her mother. 
Eva embraced her warmly, saying a great 
deal that was comforting and reassuring by 
the loving caress, and when Hugh took her 
band with his firm, manly grasp, Nora lelt 
that she had at least, t wo friends who were 
proof against the chills of adversity. 
“ Well, my daughter, what success said 
her mother, when they were all seated again, 
“ Oh, capital I” replied Nora. “ Did you 
know,” turning to Eva, “ that I am going to 
school again to learn my* A, B, C’s ? ” 
“ Yes, your mother lias been telling us. 
How long will it take you to master those 
mysterious little dots?” 
" That will depend on the brilliancy of 
my talents, I suppose. I can't afford to 
have it take long,” added she, soberly, a 
shade of care overspreading her bright face. 
“ And how soon do you enter school ?” 
asked Eva, again. 
“ Whenever I like,” Nora answered; “ but 
I must find a hoarding place and get moved 
first, so that. 1 shall have no interruptions." 
“ Let Eva aud myself take that first trouble 
off yom hands, Miss Nora,” said Hugh 
“ Thank you ; but—I’m afraid—you don’t 
realize what very modest accommodations 
we must content ourselves with.” 
“ I think you may trust me with that,” 
Hugh said, earnestly ; and Nora accepted 
his kind offer gratefully. 
“ Y'ou must not forget my party among 
all your cares,” said Eva, rising to go. 
“ Why, I had forgotten it," Nora ex¬ 
claimed. “ But I caiinot come—now." 
“ But you must come. 1 can’t do without 
you !” Eva insisted. Nora held out a long 
time, hut at. last, w lien her mother joined 
with Eva, she yielded, saying, half laughing, 
“ Well, I suppose I may as well go and 
lake my leave of society while my last party 
dress is in fashion, Cm I probably shall not 
have another very soon.” 
“ Are you sorry ?” asked Hugh. 
“ Yes, a little,” she answered, deprecating- 
ly, whereat Hugh laughed, saying “ Woman 
like,” us he shut the door hastily between 
himself aud the pair of gloves that were mak¬ 
ing for his devoted head.—[To he continued. 
■-- 
PITTED TO A HAIR. 
THE STORY OF A MICROSCOPE. 
_a- 
Some time ago, being in company with a 
medical man, whom 1 will call Mr. R-, 
we fell into conversation on the uses of the 
microscope, in the management of which he 
was an adept. “ Now,” said he, “ I will 
tell you a story of vvlmt happened to my¬ 
self—one which, I think, well illustrates the 
importance of this instrument to society, 
though I was put in a very unpleasant posi¬ 
tion owing to my acquaintance with it. 
“ I have, as you know, given a good deal 
of attention to comparative anatomy, espe¬ 
cially to the structure of the- bairns it appears 
under the microscope. To the unassisted 
eye, indeed, nil hair appears very much 
alike, except as it is long nr short, dark or 
fair, straight or curly, coarse or fine. Under 
the microscope, however, the case is very 
different; the white man’s is round, the 
negro’s oval, the mouse’s apparently jointed, 
the lint's jagged, and so on. Indeed, every 
animal has hair of a peculiar character, and, 
what is more, this character varies accord¬ 
ing to the part of the body from which it is 
taken—an important circumstance, ns will 
appear from my story, which is this: 
“ 1 once received a letter by post, contain¬ 
ing a few hairs, with a request that I would 
examine them, and adding that they would 
he called for in a few days. Accordingly, I 
submitted t he hairs to the microscope, when 
1 discovered that they were from the human 
eyebrow, and had been bruised. I made a 
note to this effect, and folded it up with the 
hairs lu an envelope, ready for the person 
who had sent them. Ill a few days a stranger 
called and inquired whether I had made the 
investigation. ‘ Ob, yes,’ I said, ‘ there they 
are, and you will find them and their de¬ 
scription in this envelope,’ handing it to him 
at the same time, lie expressed himself ns 
being much obliged, and offered me a fee, 
which, however, I declined, telling him that 
I could not think of taking anything for so 
small a matter. 
“It. turned out, however, of more conse¬ 
quence than I had imagined, lor within a 
week 1 whs served With ft subpoena in attend 
as a witness Oil a trial for murder. This was 
very disagreeable, as I have said, hut there 
was no help for it now. The case was this: 
man had been killed by a blow from some 
blunt instrument on the eyebrow, and the 
hairs sent to me for examination had been 
taken from a hammer in the possession of a 
suspected murderer, I was put into the wit¬ 
ness box, and my testimony, • that the hairs 
were from the human eyebrow, and had been 
bruised,’ was just, the link in the chain of 
evidence which sufficed to convict the pris¬ 
oner. Tiie jury, however, were not easily 
satisfied that my statement was worth any¬ 
thing; and it required the solemn assurance 
of the. Judge that such a conclusion was 
within the l each of science to convince them 
that they might act upou it. 
“One juryman in particular—an old far¬ 
mer—was very hard to satisfy. ‘ Does thee 
mean to say,’ said he, 4 that, thee Cun tell any 
hair of any animal?’ I answered that I 
would not take upon myself to assert posi¬ 
tively that l could do so, although I believed 
1 could. * Well,’ said he, ‘I’ll prove thee.’ 
“ The prisoner, as 1 said, was convicted, 
and 1 went home, and in the busy life of an 
extensive practice, forgot all about my ob¬ 
stinate old farmer. About two years after¬ 
wards, however, a person, an utter stranger 
to me, called on me with.a few hairs screwed 
up in a piece of paper, which he asked me 
to examine and report on. 
‘“Is this another murder case?’ I in¬ 
quired ; • tor if so, 1 will have nothing to do 
with it. I’ve had enough of that sort of 
work.’ 
“ ‘No, no,’ said he, ‘it is nothing of the 
kind. It is only a matter of curiosity, which 
I should be very much obliged if you would 
solve; and if you will do it, 1 will call or 
semi for the result of your examination in a 
few days’ lime. Having received this assur¬ 
ance 1 undertook the investigation. 
“ When he was gone and i had leisure, 1 
put the hairs under the microscope, and soon 
discovered that they were taken from the 
hack of u Norway rat. 
“ Two or three days afterward, as I was 
sitting in my consulting room, an old farm¬ 
er-looking man was ushered in. 4 A Veil,’ 
said he, 4 has thee looked at them hairs?’ 
“ 4 Yes,’ I answered, 4 and 1 find that they 
are from the hack of a Norway rat.’ ‘ Well',’ 
exclaimed he, ‘so they are. Thou hast for¬ 
gotten me, hut I have not forgotten thee. 
Does thee recollect the trial for murder at 
L-assizes? I said I would prove thee, 
and so I have, for them hairs come from the 
back of a rat’s skin my son sent me from 
Norway.’ So the old gentleman was quite 
satisfied with the proof to which he had put 
me, and I, as you may suppose, was well 
pleased that my skill and sagacity had stood 
such a queer proof as this, and more con¬ 
vinced than ever of the value of the micro¬ 
scope.” 
Here the Doctor ended his story, which I 
have given as nearly as possible in his own 
words, and upon which I believe a thorough 
dependence may be placed. 
falbaft Sating. 
SOMETIME. 
BY GEORGE WILLOUGHBY. 
“ It is a sweet, sweet song that warbles to and fro 
among the topmost houghs of the heart.”— Prentice. 
Asn oh. it often conies to me. 
Like rippling naves of melody— 
As glad us binds, when tho sun In smiles 
Bangs the (lav from enchanted isles. 
And when some (Vioi.ppotntRTmt swells 
Within tny soul, iilco cheerful bells, 
A full-voiced lyric often tells 
Of “ Sometime.” 
Beautiful flowers and birds are here, 
And tho’ they come from year to year, 
Still we are sad when the blossoms fade 
And the birds return to tlie southern glade— 
And tho saddened spirit often grieves 
O er parting songs and " withered leaves,” 
Till assurance lends the “ golden sheaves ” 
Of a Hometime.” 
Beyond the vales ami hills of time, 
Where they drink from the springs of that thirst¬ 
less clime. 
Where the bitter wound we bore for years 
Is healed, and sorrow disappears : 
In that ” homestead,” built on eternal hills, 
Where the Immeasured mansion fills— 
There the song that forever thrills 
is "Sometime.” 
O, city, whose " pinnacles und spires” 
Rise In the land of harps and lyres— 
Whose thresholds and broad gates contain 
“ No sound Of weeping,” care or pain. 
O, home ot rest, whore the ransomed wear 
No crowns, aud no crosses bear, 
Forever, ever I’ll be there 
"Sometime.” ^ 
---■ 
HUMILITY. 
The attitude of every church on earth 
ought to be humility, ought to he self-dis¬ 
trust, ought to be .an abstinence from self- 
laudation and lofty claims. Nor ought this 
lesson to he wholly lost, upon ourselves. 
We, too, show oftentimes a reluctance to 
acknowledge the shortcomings of our own 
branch of the Church universal. We are 
given to pointing out how aptly this or that 
is arranged in her service, how beautiful 
and expressive is this or Unit prayer, hotv 
perfect arc her creeds, and how blameless 
her articles. Blit she, too, among them all 
has slumbered and slept, has missed her 
point, or overshot it, as often as others; has 
refused to sweep away what was worn out 
and hindered her work, and has risen in 
anger against proposals adapted for the 
mode of the time, being bound with the 
leaden chain of precedent. And therefore 
millions have drifted away whom she has 
been too proud to pursue; and she, dowered 
as never church was before for Christ’s work 
in the world, lags after her missionary duties, 
and lets their performance become the scorn 
of unbelievers .—Deem Alford. 
-- 
THE DYING NEVER WEEP. 
It is a striking fact that ihe dying never 
weep. The sobbing,the heart-breaking agony 
of ihe circle of friends around the death-bed, 
call forth no responsive tears from the dying. 
Is it because he is insensible, and stiff iu the 
chill of dissolution ? That cannot be, for 
he asks for his father’s hand, as if to gain 
strength in the mortal struggle, and leans on 
the breast of his mother, sister or brother, 
in still couscious affection. Just before ex¬ 
piring, he calls the loved ones, and with 
quivering lips says, “ Kiss me! ” showing 
that the love which lie has ever borne in liis 
heart is still fresh and warm. It must be 
because the dying have reached a point too 
deep for earthly sorrows, too transcendant 
for weeping. They are face to fuco with 
higher and holier things, with the Father 
iu Heaven and His angels. There is no 
weeping in that blessed abode to whieh he 
is hastening. 
--■— 
GOLDEN THOUGHTS. 
Better be understood by ten than ad¬ 
mired by ten thousand.— Edwards. 
Whosoever shall do the will of my 
Father which is in heaven, the same is my 
brother, aud sister, and mother.— Jesus. 
Seven years of silent inquiry are needful 
for a man to learn the truth, but fourteen in 
order to learn how to make it known to his 
fellow men.— Plato. 
Whatever you would not wish your 
neighbor to do to you, do it not unto him. 
This is the whole law; the rest is merely 
the exposition of it,— Rabbi Ilillel. 
Look not back upon your dark, stumbling 
paths, nor within on your fitful and vacil¬ 
lating heart, but forward to scenes of integ¬ 
rity and usefulness; be more than a cipher 
in life. 
The first man must have received knowl¬ 
edge of God by int uition, or from God. The 
analogy is wholly iu favor of a supernatural 
revelation; an intuition would have been 
only a guess. 
The best thing to give your enemy is for¬ 
giveness; to your opponent, tolerance; to a 
friend, your heart; to your child, a good ex¬ 
ample; to u father, deference; to your 
mother, conduct that will make her proud 
of her son ; to yourself, respect; to all men, 
charity; to God, obedience. 
