her

began rapidly to outgrow sickness, and was sent to school along with the other children. But the friendship that had existed between her and Andrew never died, although there were a few years when he took little notice of her. But when at fourteen she began to manifest a desire to be taken to the many parties, the only amusement for the young people there, Andrew, like a gallant cavalier, took her as often as her mother would allow it. He was six years older than her; but he concluded he would wait for Margaret, he was in no hurry to

marry.

But now he had been called to go on a mission, and he therefore decided to find out how he stood with Margaret before he went.

There was to be a great ball on the evening of Christmas day, and of course Andrew was the partner of pretty Margaret, who was as happy as a lark. She danced and flew about in her pink dress and ditto ribbons till it did one good to look at the pretty little thing. And Andrew always knew where she was. He followed her with his eyes whoever he danced with; but he didn't dance a great deal; it always seemed to affect his heart someway, and he was sensible enough to be cautious.

That night when they went home he asked her in hisstraightforward way to be his wife and Margaret promised and was very happy. It was decided, being that Margaret was so young, that they should postpone the marriage till

he came back from his mission. There was never a doubt in his heart of Margaret's faithfulness; he judged her by himself, however. Before he went he asked her if she thought she could wait for him. and she promised that come what might she would be true, and he firmly believed that she would.

Andrew left home in February, and Margaret nearly cried her lovely eyes out for several days after his departure. But with youth grief cannot last very long. and she soon realized that if she was to last till Andrew came back she must stop grieving at once, and she did.

Early in the spring their little community was blessed with a new school teacher, a young man from Salt Lake City, who came to board with Margaret's parents.

It had been agreed between her and Andrew that they should not correspond, as he considered it more proper not to be fettered with a correspondence of that sort when working for the Lord. And so it came to pass that while he was diligently striving to do as much good as possible, and enduring many hardships for the gospel's sake, Margaret began to compare her honest, clumsy lover with the spruce, slick-tongued schoolmaster, and wishing in her inmost heart that Andrew had been a little more like him. But she meant to be true to her missionary. But meanwhile there could be no harm in flirting a little bit with the teacher, whose name, by the way, was Horace

But

Greenley, which she accordingly did to her heart's content. Mr. Greenley was not a very good young man; he knew that Margaret was the promised wife of another man, yet he never neglected an opportunity of taking advantage of his absence, and before the girl realized what she was doing she had promised to marry Horace Greenley. Her parents, who knew she was engaged to Andrew, of whom they thought a great deal more than of this young stranger, who was reported to both drink and smoke, warned Margaret not to carry her nonsense with him too far. But one bright morning, before Andrew had been gone a year, Margaret left her home and ran away with the stranger, no one knew where. Her sorrow-stricken parents did everything to find their daughter, but all in vain.

Another year and Andrew came back, happy, and fully expecting to find his darling. No one had told him of Margaret's doings, thinking it best to let that rest till he came home. And now the blow struck him so unexpectedly that it nearly killed him. He was laid up for several weeks, and of course his illness was attributed to the hardships of his mission by those who knew no better. The doctor came and said it was heart disease, and that he must be very careful not to overexert himself. Andrew smiled sadly and thought the doctor had "struck it" this time, for it was really his heart that was broken.

He didn't say much about his disappointment. When he was able to be up again he went about doing his work as before he went away; but his youth was gone, life had lost its flavor, and Andrew. grew old-looking and stooped

shouldered.

Christmas was coming on again, a fourth time since the day that Andrew and Margaret walked home from the party so happy together, when one morning Andrew astonished his mother by abruptly saying: "I'm going to Salt Lake tonight, mother." Mrs. Wight sat down on a chair full of clean clothes she was, putting away from yesterday's ironing.

"Be you in earnest, Andrew?" "Never was more so."

His mother sat awhile looking at him wonderingly, then said:

"What can you be wanting in Salt Lake City now at this time of the year?"

"I'm going to hunt up Margaret.

"Hunt up some common sense, if you have any," was his mother's impatient rejoinder. What do you want with her?"

"She wants me; she is in trouble."

"Where did you find that out; has her folks heard from her?" "No."

"Well, how do you know she's in Salt Lake, and that he wants you?"

Andrew hesitated a moment, and shifted a little uneasily on his chair. He would rather not have answered, but his mother

sat looking rigidly at him, and he knew she would have it out of him; so he told her that he had seen Margaret in a dream last night, and she had begged him to help her for she was in sore need.

"And you will act on that dream, just because your head is full of her night and day, and it's no wonder you dream all sorts of nonsense about her. You must

act like a simpleton and run to Salt Lake after a fancy or a nightmare, or what you've a mind to call it. Who's going to look after the stock the while?"

"I'll see to that, mother, before I go."

"And so you're really going?" asked his mother, as if she had hardly believed it till now.

"I must."

"Well, you always was a fool!" and the irate old lady went out and slammed the door to seek consolation with a neighbor, and talk over the waywardness of young people now-a-days, and how Andrew's heart had troubled him of late.

But Andrew, true to the promptings of his noble heart, went to Salt Lake City.

The snow fell softly, as if loath to disturb the holiday peace of Christmas eve, as the merchants of Salt Lake turned out their gas and locked the stores, and, well satisfied with the day's income, hurried homeward to the bosom of their respective families. The streets were getting quiet and deserted; only the saloons were still ablaze with light and profane

language, which rang out in the still night when the doors were opened, with a mocking echo, so different from the song of peace of eighteen hundred years ago, when the glad tidings were proclaimed to fallen mankind. And here were fallen mankind revelling in sin and singing the praise of Satan's own invention-whiskyas if the angel's song had never reached their ears. A lonely figure was crouching around a pile of empty barrels outside one of these houses, trying to get a glimpse of the interior whenever the door was opened. She went up to the door several times as if to enter, but shrank back again as often. Then she would walk forth and back a couple of times in much agitation, and try to nerve herself for the task of going in. She did not notice another figure, a man, on the opposite street corner, who had stood watching her closely some time, until he came toward her, and she looked up frightened and would hurry on. But something in the man's appearance had arrested her attention. She darted another hurried glance at him, and then her name was spoken.

"Margaret, Margaret, is it you?" What a world of sorrowful compassion lay in the words, and the Woman knew the voice instantly, She sprang forward and clutched his arm, while she gasped out: "O, Andrew, have you come to save me, my good angel; have mercy on me, Andrew and forgive me."

elp you? What are you doing. here?" He could scarcely control his voice; but took both her hands and held them within his own as he had done so often when as a child she came to him with her trouble.

"My child is sick," she faltered, "and he is in there," pointing toward the saloon. "I came to get him home; my child is very sick; I wanted him to go for a doctor: but I don't suppose he would be able to even if I got him out with me. Do not wish me any evil for what I've done to you, Andrew, for I've had plenty of it." She looked furtively up at him, and her own eyes dropped 'neath the sad, brown eyes, so full of pity for her misery.

"O what have I done, what have I done?" sobbed Margaret loudly, not heeding the kindly voice of Andrew, who tried to comfort her. Her own conscience repeated the words. and she checked her sorrow a little and said, "It's the wages of sin, Andrew." He had looked about him in Margaret's destitute dwelling, and he shuddered at the thought of what his poor girl had suffered. Little by little he got her to tell him her sad tale, which there is no need to repeat, and he pitied her from the bottom of his heart. He asked her if it were not best to write to her parents, but Margaret said she dared not. She had outraged their feelings, so that she could not hope for their forgiveness. But Andrew promised that he would do it for her this very night.

She did not ask about him; all absorbed as she was in her own grief, it seemed so natural to have him there that she asked no questions. He then advised her to accept the kind offer of her neighbor to go and stay with her the remainder of the night, and he would come again in the morning and help her as well as he could. Before he left he gave her a twenty dollar gold piece, and said, "Keep it to yourself, Margaret; do not let him get it." And Margaret had sunk so deep and suffered so much poverty that she took it without remonstrating, only thanking him with her tears. When Andrew came home to the

room he had rented, with an old acquaintance of his mother's, he sat down and wept bitterly.

"Oh Margaret, Margaret," wailed his heart, "thus should I find you; and I would have sheltered you from all pain." When he had quieted down some he wrote an earnest, entreating letter to her parents, telling them of her forsaken position, and implored them to come to her as soon as possible. He finished the letter and laid it by ready to mail it early in the morning, and then started another for his mother, telling her all about Margaret, and begged her to be kind to her, when, as he hoped she should come home.

Margaret waited in vain for Andrew all the next day; her little one was buried, and her husband stayed sober one whole. day.

Two days after the funeral her mother came, and the erring child was forgiven. In company they wept over Margaret's sorrow, and the mother proposed that she should go home with her.

"But where is Andrew, my good angel?" enquired Margaret, after having told her mother how they had met. At this her mother burst into tears again, and told her that Andrew had gone home to the Christmas cheer in heaven. On the morning of Christmas day his landlady had found him dead. in his chair, with a letter to his mother before him. The doctor said it was enlargement of the heart, and he was quite right.

The excitement and emotion of the meeting with Margaret had been too much for him.

Sophy Valentine.

WORDS OF WELCOME.

Written and read by Mrs. Sarah Rush, at the Old Folks' dinner, which was given them by the Y. L. M. I. A. Richfield, Dec. 28th, 1892.

Welcome, all ye aged veterans!

For this day to you belongs;
Hear the happy strains of music,
Listen to the joyful songs,
Noble fathers, honored mothers,
For your happiness we pray;
Eagerly we strive to serve you,

Make your spirits light and gay.

These, your fair and noble daughters,
Guided by the Lord on high,
Long have labored, much have gathered,
That the aged might have joy.
We love to see the dear old eyes

With pleasure brightly shine,
Your faces filled with radiance,

The light of love divine.

We cannot ask that flowers

Always bloom beneath your feet, For we know the awful poison,

And the sting of things too sweet.
We only ask that Father

Will lead us all aright,
And guide the weary, trembling feet
Through darkness into light,

Time has gathered all the roses

From your faces long ago. Their precious bloom and order

Has been washed by winter's snow. Yet, we will not speak of age

In a sad and mournful strain, For winter does not come

To bring us tears and pain.

Radiant spring and splendid summer,
Glorious autumn all are gone;
But the prospect still is cheerful,

All life's victories are not won.
Though the winter of your lives may come,
No more to pass away;

Though the frost of age may linger,

Throughout eternal day,

There will come a happy spring time
In that home of light above,