And the almond tree shall flourish,

Bearing fruit of peace and love. There the eyes, now dim, shall brighten,

And the weary ones be free, And the light of love will waken Songs of peace and unity.

There the feast will be eternal,

Loved ones meet to part no more; No hot tears nor aching bosoms,

On that bright and happy shore. There all hearts will be united;

There the weary be at rest, And with Christ we'll dwell forever, In the mansions of the blest.

ANDREW DOYLE'S CHRISTMAS EVE.

THERE it was, in the blue, frosty air, its grey adobe houses and its trees, all covered with the deep white mantle of winter. His native city! How the heart of the returning missionary thrilled, as he watched the outlines of the town through the car windows, growing clearer and clearer as

you will find lots of improvements. in L———”

The missionary was delighted with the interruption, the two had been friends in childhood, and although they had met rarely in later youth any one from "Home", that blessed spot on earth, was joyfully welcome to the eyes of this returned missionary.

Andrew Doyle had been in Europe nearly three years, and although he had received letters. from his own immediate relatives, the friends and acquaintances who began a profuse correspondence with him, had every one ceased to write before he had been gone a year. So, although he had a general idea of matters and things at home, still the little odds and ends of news and personal gossip were all untold, and now most assiduously

Valley is cold, and Christmas finds it robed in its frosty winter. mantle, the hills shrouded with the white glory of snow and the vales still with their babbling lips closed in the kiss of the ice king. But it was beautiful, thought this enthusiastic young man, as the roofs and spires of his beloved town sharpened in outline against the circling sky. So intent was he in gazing upon the loveliness without, that he was startled to hear a voice shout in his ear, above the rattle of the train.

"Hello, old man, getting home are you? Well, awful glad to see Not much change, eh? But when you come to look around

you.

with all sorts of questions.

"Oh yes, there's lots of new houses gone up. Manton's have got a regular dandy of a modern house with corners cut off and put on in every wall of the house. Higbee's have torn down the front of their house and put on a big, two-storied bay window. part. Even Widow Jensen has made enough in the boom to put a whole bak part to her house, and it looks like a long Chinese wash house running nearly out to the end of her lot. Peter Smith has left for Arizona and the whole family of Stukles have moved up to Canada. How are the boys and girls, you ask? Well, of

Green married an outsider and she has been left to get along with her young one the best she could, for the Gentile lit out for parts unknown about six months ago. What fools some of our girls are; they seem to think that a fellar that talks rough has a rough heart; and the fop or black-leg of a Gentile who comes here and talks smooth and calls them beautiful creatures, oh he's a jo-dandy and away go their wits and their heels in hot pursuit."

"And the other girls; I haven't heard a word about the old crowd for over six months. Mother wrote to me regularly, but she had so much home news to tell me that I didn't get a word about other people."

"Well, who do you want to hear about? Hepsy Wison? She's the same jolly girl she ever was, and Hattie Olsen is going with Hery Jones; looks as if they would make a match of it before long. And Rill and Bessie are up in Idaho this winter teaching school."

"And Nellie?"

"Nell? Oh she's just got married to Ben Johnson. Didn't you kind o'look sweet at her? I heard something about that but had plum forgotten it. Cheer up old boy, there's just as good fish in the sea as ever was caught."

And then the whistle blew, there was the confusion of arrival at the station, it was home again, and whatever emotion was caused the returned missionary by the

last information was unnoticed by his companion and almost swallowed up in the swelling joy of meeting parents and kindred assembled at the station to welcome him home.

a

Three hours afterwards, deputation of young men came to the house of the Doyle's and insisted upon his joining them in a Christmas sleighing party to visit the adjoining town of H-, there to attend the grand Christmas Eve Ball held in their honor, and then the return at midnight under the frosty, brilliant stars.

see

His mother joined in the wish to have him go, as a number of his cousins lived at H—, and she was anxious for him to all his aunts and cousins there. But he refused to join them in their merry party in the big bobsled, as he did not want to leave home until nearly nine o'clock, he had many things to say to his beloved parents. He promised, however, to come over in his father's cutter, and would be there to enjoy the latter part of the ball. He did not tell them that there was small hopes of his enjoyment at the party, for the one face he wished to see, the one voice he longed to bid him welcome home now belonged in marriage to another, and he could not bear the thought of seeing her or even being in her presence. But for that very reason he should go to this party, and prove to her and to his associates, whom he felt suspected his

attachment to this girl, that he was not broken-hearted.

Just at dusk, the bob-sled, with its six steaming, prancing horses, its buffalo robes and its merry inmates halted at his door, and Jim Willis, the young man he had met on the train, came running in to beg Andrew to join their crowd.

"We've got your old sweetheart out there, and never mind if she is married, you can have a seat on the other side of her and talk about old times, just as cosy as need be."

"Thanks, Jim, but I cannot go now, I have some important things to attend to, and I will come over alone.'

"Say, you know Nell's namesake and chum is there, too, and she isn't married and you can spark her instead. Oh, come along."

But the party had to go on without Andrew, for he firmly held to his first proposition. As he rode over, several hours after, he could not keep his thoughts from dwelling upon the face of the sweet girl he had hoped to win for his wife on his return from his mission.

"It is always the way," he soliloquized. "I ought to know better than to expect a girl will be true to a fellow while he is gone on a mission. They never are. I suppose such girls are not worthy of the young men who leave them behind. But, that won't do. For Nellie Hunt is as true and good as gold. I can't help who

she's married. I guess the more sensible way to put the matter is that she was too good for me, and so has married a better man." Then his thoughts drifted in another direction. "So then, Nell Miller is here this winter; I thought she had settled down in her own home in B. She is a jolly girl, and I always liked her. She wrote to me for several months, and I would have been glad to have kept up the correspondence, but I dare say she has found my letters dull. I am rather glad now, in the face of all that has happened, that I did not try to correspond with Nellie Hunt. Some way, I could never get courage to write the first letter. It's a good thing I didn't, now; she and the boys would have had a better chance to run me than ever if I had written to her; and then there's no letters for herher-well for anybody to see.' The poor fellow gulped down the lump in his throat at the mere thought of a husband other than himself for sweet, dainty Nellie Hunt.

It was a delightful ball; there were happy faces and laughing lips in every corner of the roomy dancing hall. To be sure, the room was not lighted by electric or gas lights, nor were the ladies gowned in rustling silks and lowcut bodices; nor were the men clothed in swallow-tail coats and expanding shirt fronts. The dresses were pretty, the lights were good, and the men were well dressed, and if there were no gas

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 hisstraight-❘ forward 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. 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

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