It Is Never Too Late to Mend

tairs. Snowy sheets and curtains and toilet-cover showed the good housewife. The windows were open, and a beautiful nosegay of Susan's flowers on the table.

y born orator, he felt his way with his audience, whereas the preacher who is not an orator throws out his fine things, hit or miss, and does not know and feel and care whether he is hitting or missing. "Open your hand, shut your eyes, and fling out the good seed so much per foot-that is enough." No. This man preached to the faces and hearts that happened to be round him. He established between himself and them a pulse, every throb of which he felt and followed. If he could not get hold of them one way, he tried another; he would have them-he was not there to fail. His discourse was human; it was man speaking to man on the most vital and interesting topic in the world or

that his line was not to begin by dictating his own topic, but lie in wait for them; let them first choose their favorite theme, an

ad been by himself to see some of the poor people, and on his retu

acco did you give away, sir?" a

acco," replied the

ver carry gingerbread or

have youth. Old age wants everything, so the o

s there w

y persons who need consolation, but

Oh, I think I know.

a young d

't know who

ue

aid Susan, l

rself, Mis

what is the m

e, if you think me wor

ses, no doubt, like all the world; but I h

n trouble. You were

sir!-how did you

atural when any one enters a room; and soon after you made an excuse for leaving

have been a

er. You had been removi

often they don't know for why, but the

ns of a heavy grief; then it comes out that you have lost your relish for things that once pleased you. The first day I came here you told me your garden had been neglected of late, and you blushed in saying so. Old

u about, sir; nothing I will

admit of no other consolation. The sweetest exercise of my office is to comf

ce-taking, as well as good, but you are not a woman, and you must excuse me,

and merely said to her again, "What is i

ay do not ask me so;" then she suddenly lifted her hands, "My George is gone acros

sed to look upon human griefs, and as he looked on her various expressions chased one another across that eloquent face. Sweet and tender memories and regrets were not wanting among them. After a long pause

between two loving hearts, "but," said he, "there are barriers more impassable than the sea. Better so than that he should b

. She was learning to believe

tion he pass

ct opposite of what

st

eat deal of gratitude; vulgar sorrow is selfish. Do it for God's sake and your own single-heartedly. Go to the school, return to your flowers, and

ou and George. 'Give sorrow words, the grief that does not

very true. Why a little of the lead seems to have

to draw from others the full history of their woes; and she found that many a grief bitter as her own had passed over the dwellers i

the sweetest hour in all the working days of the week was