service and again at the Sunday school concert in the evening. People said, "It wan't right to disturb the service so: she ought to be spoke to." Yet no one offered to perform that delicate mission to the unconscious offender. She gave her best efforts to the church, and who could ask more? Surely it was not the duty of the parish to discourage devotion in its members.

March winds yielded their blasts to the gentle thaw of "mudtime." Mud time passed its zenith, house cleaning came and went, and planting was begun, and all Leeds Centre was glad of the spring. Nick was helping the Martins during the "heft o' seed time." "People were too busy to talk washin' machines," he said, in explanation of his visits, here and there, "and I'm content to lend a hand at farm work in return for my keep during the dull season." Leeds was glad to have it so. Nick could afford this lapse from business. He had prospered in his enterprise and even 'snug' old Aubrey Martin said, "he'd a mind to give him a start in the creamery business 'long with him, for a good, cap'ble man wan't to be passed by ev'ry day." Miss Martin, too, found it pleasing and somewhat of a novelty to have a man about the house to wait on her wishes. She had forgotten what it was to sit on the back porch with her needle work and talk in the twilight of a spring day. She forgot herself into thinking that time had turned back a few years when people gaped as they drove by, to see who it was there on the steps at her feet. She had thought at times that Nick was especially obliging. It started her and she calmed herself with the thought, "It's just his way; he ain't different from what he is to anybody." Once Nick had asked her to go down to a tea that the "Gray girls" gave in honor of a visiting cousin— the "Gray girls" had long outlived their girlhood, but tradition preserved their youthful name, in spite of advancing years. She had consented with real pleasure, put on her new Alpaca and best bonnet, thinking that the occasion was memorable. She liked to think that she was not yet like the "Gray girls," who always rode unescorted to meetings. There was a real archness in her way as Nick drove up to the door and gallantly helped her out. He put

up the horse in the shed, she remembered, and rejoined her in the sitting room; and how pleasantly the evening was spent. Thinking of that, she would blush at the thought of anybody "keeping company" with her. "Mabel Martin, you ought not to be thinking of such things!" She sang better for several Sundays after the tea, but it was a vain hope for her voice had forgotten its youthfulness and unconsciously slipped back to its old tone as the incident grew dim in the passing weeks. She continued her singing long after this, though the leading spirits had decided a change must come. Lewis Hartley and Mrs. Austin were unanimous in their opinion and had a large following. Some said a parish meeting was needed; others, more inclined to diplomacy, suggested that the minister should intervene to a peaceful settlement. Nick sat on the porch, thinking of the situation and his own homeless condition, as Miss Martin was starting out for the Friday rehearsal.

"Miss Martin, I'll walk along with you, if you don't mind; I've got to call at the Johnsons, and I'll step in for you on the way back." Miss Martin was only too glad of company. It was an evening to make any creature sing. The sun setting over Snell's Hill made in the sky promise of a resplendant day; the heavy spring dew, the freshness of the earth and the voices of the little folks of the spring that sing in apple-blossom time, were all signs of the glad times of year. Nick walked on pensively till the stage that had overtaken them rumbled off down the road. "Mis' Martin," said he, looking up from the ruddy hill-top, "I ben thinkin' some of movin' away."

"You ain't, are you Nick?" she answered, startled; I donno how Leeds can get on without you."

"Yas, I've had a good offer at the Falls an' seems almost best to quit livin' round as I do."

"Why you know we're only too glad to-," she said eagerly, and stopped as if it were wrong to say it.

Nick looked up. "Mabel, I ben talkin' with your father some 'bout business, an' do you 'spose if I took that job at the creamery

an' hired the old Curtis place I c'd find anyone to run it. Do you think so?"

"Why, Nick, there's lots o' people that would be glad to do it!" Nick took an abrupt turn. "Mabel, what would you say if I asked you 'bout it?"

The last rays of the sun peered in over the pews as the choir took their places. Mabel Martin looked out over the blossoming trees, over the green fields to the hills beyond, and sang for the dawning of the new day. Nick called Lewis aside. “Lewis,” he said, "I fixed that little matter o' the choir ye spoke about. Fact is it's too far to come up from the Curtis place evenin's fur rehearsals. Mis' Martin don't feel's tho' she c'd give the time."

"Why, Nick, what do you mean?" said Lewis, perplexed. "Curtis place, an' Mabel Martin!" "Wall, fact is," urged Nick, "Mabel Martin's agreed to devote all her time to me, an' we're thinkin' o' takin' the Curtis place 'bout hayin' time." Lewis grasped his hand, and face beaming turned to the choir.

"All right agin, Mis' Austin, ef you'll jest start the doxology." And 'Praise God from whom all blessings flow' was wafted out in harmony into the stillness of the spring twilight.

R. B. C., '02.

A TORY VANQUISHED.

It was a warm summer day, one of those peaceful days the memory of which lingers long in our minds and cheers the dreariest days of winter. The Mohawk Valley, the most beautiful of its kind in New York State, with its famous river winding in and out among fertile fields and green meadows, which were rich in promise of the autumn's harvest, presented a picture fair to the eye. In the background, the hills covered with thick and seemingly inpenetrable forest, rose in stately grandeur until they met the sky in the dim horizon. Where a little creek skips over its stony bottom in its haste to gain the calm, flowing river, stood a large, gray stone church, its two spires towering high in the ai as if missionaries of peace to the Indians of the surrounding wilderness. Over its old-fashioned, clumsy door was roughly hewn in the stones, this inscription in German: "Erbauet in Yahe Christi 1770 Deu 18th Aug." A few rudely constructed farmhouses of a very primitive fashion, square in shape and provided with port holes for defence against hostile Indians, were grouped about in an attempt at regularity. Near them were large barns and along the river banks stretched cultivated farms, all of which went to show the prosperity of these early settlers. But the restfulness of this scene was marred somewhat by the stern front of a block house which stood in a commanding position upon an eminence overlooking the valley, two miles down the river.

The quiet which rested over everything made apparent that this was the Sabbath and a lovelier day cannot be imagined. The air was filled with the sweet perfume of fragrant flowers and the birds, hopping about from branch to branch on the stately old trees which shaded the church with their foliage joyfully sang of summer and its pleasures. The only figure in sight was the sexton standing in the doorway of the church, leaning on his gun. To a casual observer, this roughly dressed man with his warlike weapon would seem strangely out of place in a house of worship, but you

must remember that this was in the stormy days of the Revolution, when Sir John Johnson, with his Tory forces and Indian allies, filled the German settlers with constant apprehension.

"There will be but few to listen to Peter Van Arnum, this morning," he said in a low voice, looking down the valley at the fort and tenderly playing with the lock of his gun. "Oh that I were young again and could help wipe out those bloody Tories-curse them. Ah," with a softened expression,-"here comes the domine now."

With a slow but firm tread, a tall, broad-shouldered man came out of the nearest house and walked up the grassy path which led to the church. A man of such noble countenance and dignified bearing is seldom seen in our modern world. From under the broad-rimmed hat, pulled down to shield his eyes from the blinding rays of the sun, long, brown locks tinged with gray fell over his shoulders. His face, stern and rugged in its outlines, was softened by a tender, sweet mouth, and although his steel gray eyes had something of a sad and mournful look, yet there lurked in their depths the reflection of a warm heart. His thread-bare clothes showed the usual poverty of our forefathers, but were neat and clean. The buckles of his shoes were carefully polished, his stockings were neatly darned and his knickerbockers were brushed and patched to conceal the many signs of wear.

As one looked into that patient face, there was revealed to him the story of a single tragedy, of broken hopes and a ruined life. He had come into the valley from across the seas many years before and had lived there ever after, hiding his sorrow as best he could and striving to forget a past known only to himself. By his gentle and sweet manners, he had won the hearts of his congregation, who, realizing that some great disappointment had sometime come into his life, offered their sympathy in their unobtrusive friendship and loyalty, and he, on his part, ever patient, loving and kind, had become a true friend to them all.

As he drew near the door, he glanced up at the sexton with a friendly smile. "A pleasant morning to you, Jacob," said he in