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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 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-whisky— as 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."

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"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.

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"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 her was buried, and 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 his in his chair, with a letter to 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,

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 they neared the station. C▬▬ 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, 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.

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

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

in

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The missionary was delighted with the interruption, the two had been friends in childhood, and although they had met rarely 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 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 he most assiduously plied the young man beside him 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 ba k 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 and girls, you ask?

the boys

Well, Well, of

Manda

course you know that Green married an outsider and sne 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.

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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.

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 see 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

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