tinually caught. They spoke no word. They only went on and on, until, all at once, Katey, faint and dizzy and bewildered, would have fallen, had not the Professor's strong hand held her up. He seated her upon the trunk of a prostrate tree. "It is useless to go farther," he said quietly. He stepped upon the log beside her, and, raising his fingers to his lips, gave a sharp, shrill whistle. He waited a moment. Katey held her breath to listen. But there was no response. Again and again he repeated it. He changed it to a shout. A flock of crows rose overhead, with a great flapping of wings and hoarse, oft-repeated caws, dying away at last in the distance. His voice had awakened no other sound. He sat down beside her. "We need not hasten now," for Katey had made a movement to rise. "We should be quite as likely to take the wrong direction as the right. We either entered the woods above the point where we lunched, and so have been going farther away from it all the time, or have passed the place and not recognized it." "But Miss Wormley and the girls? They must be searching for us now. "Give yourself no anxiety about them," said the Professor. "They were safely housed an hour ago, I doubt not. Finding that we did not return, Miss Wormley would take the girls home, and, perhaps, send some one after us. We will hope so, at least, and act accordingly. At the worst, we have only to wait for daylight, when we may find ourselves close by the turnpike. But I think we might make one other attempt. We will try the open fields. If we can only find the road, even if followed in the wrong direction, it must lead to some village or town, from which we can easily reach La Fayette." They gained the open ground. Above them shone the stars, too bright by far; a soft, trembling darkness filled all the space below, in which they moved as in a fog-swept sea. This is folly and madness," said the Professor. "We will go back and build a fire. They will certainly send some one to look for us." And they retraced their steps to where the heavier shadows betokened the presence of the woods. He found a log where she could sit supported by the trunk of a tree. Thus reminded, she took up the shawl which, with one of the lunch-baskets, she had carried, unconsciously, all the way, and wrapped it about her, while he gathered dry leaves and sticks, and lit a tiny fire just beyond her feet. The wind is from the woods. We may safely make it burn as brightly as we can; and he fed the flames, which, crackling and snapping, and rising higher and higher, surrounded them at last with a circle of light, making the outer darkness still more dense by contrast. "I must make a wider search for fuel," he said presently. "You will not be afraid if I leave you for a while. We may have to remain here some hours, and a rousing fire would serve a double purpose." Katey closed her eyes, when he had gone. The delight of physical rest for the moment overpowered all other sensations. She did not sleep, but her thoughts became dreamy and confused. A sudden vision aroused her. Miss Wormley's face, full of malignant satisfaction, seemed to peer out of the darkness; but it vanished as she opened her eyes. She was still alone. The flames, unfed, had died down. She was cold, and conscious now of hunger. How fortunate that they had brought away one of the baskets! If it would only prove to contain something more desirable than spoons and forks! But where was Professor Dyce? She listened anxiously for his step. Could he have strayed beyond sight of the the fire, since it had burned so low, and lost his way again? A great terror seized her of the darkness, which seemed full of staring eyes-of the silence, which held mysterious whispers. She could not stay here. She threw an armful of brush upon the flames, and turned to the woods, where he had disappeared, treading noiselessly, as though her light step might awaken some new, fresh fear. Suddenly she perceived him, not many yards away, sleeping, as she thought at first, stretched out beneath the trees, his elbow upon the ground, his hand supporting his head. His forehead was contracted, his heavy brows knit. No dreamer ever wore so anxious, so stern a countenance. Looking closer, but fairly holding her breath lest he should perceive her, she saw that his eyes, although open, were bent upon the ground; and as she moved back cautiously, he dropped his head upon his arm with a deep sigh. Was he, then, so troubled, while he had. hid his anxiety from her? Sometimes care is infectious, and sometimes it is like the plank on which the children see-saw, the depression of one elevates the other. Katey's spirits rose. They could not be really lost, she thought hopefully, retracing her steps. At the worst, as he had said, they could wait here until daylight released them. He need not be uneasy if it was on her account. And yet she would not call him. But she made the dry twigs snap in her hands, as she fed the fire, noisily. She still knelt before the blaze, opening the lunch-basket, when he rejoined her. "So you are awake. I came back once and found you sleeping," he said, with a smile. But no smile could deceive her now. "What is that? And you have carried it all the way!" "I was not aware of it, I can assure you. How fortunate!" she exclaimed, bringing out one treasure after another. Not only sandwiches and rolls, and more sandwiches, but such superfluous products of civilization as knives and forks! And what can this be?" She brought out a tin cup which held a paper, half broken open,-"Coffee!" Her manner had entirely changed. He wondered, looking down upon her, as, clasping basket and viands and all in her arms, she said, with a pretty, playful air of distress: "Professor Dyce, I am shockingly hungry. It can't be long before they come," she went on in a bright tone, setting out the sandwiches upon the end of the log nearest the fire, "and in the meantime we will take supper Will you bring some water from the brook, for the coffee?" He disappeared among the trees to return in a moment with the cup filled. They placed it upon the glowing coals. "You don't care for cream, I suppose?" said Katey, when it had boiled furiously, and been set aside at last. "O no; not at all." "And much sugar is not good for one. It might be wise to dispense with it altogether." "True, especially as we have none." "And coffee is never so delicious as when drank from the cup in which it is made," and Katey prepared to test her theory. The heated rim approached her lips. And never so hot, I am sure," she concluded, with tears in her eyes. 66 The Professor laughed. to cool; and it has not yet settled. I have camped out more than once. Coffee from a tin cup is no novelty to me." And he recounted some boyish experience with an animation which Katey felt to be forced. He watched and listened constantly, she knew. What did he dread? What did he expect? Why was he so absent and preoccupied ? As for herself, she was contented and at rest now. They had food and fire, and presently some one would come. "Are there any bears or wolves about here ?" "Ono;" and he smiled, as though amused by what she felt to be a childish question. Her face grew warm in the fire-light, but still she went on: "Is there anything one need fear?" His head had been turned as though listening. He looked around at her now. "No. Are you afraid?" "I am not afraid; but stopped, reddening to her hair. He uttered a short, crisp laugh. -" then she You thought I might be, perhaps." Katey turned her head away. "Will you not tell me why you are anxious?" she said. His face became grave at once. "Not for any harm which can come to us here, I can assure you. There is no reason why you should not sleep as peacefully as in your own bed. And, indeed, it is time you were asleep. Do you know how late it is?" "No." He took out his watch, glanced at it, and held its face to her. "One o'clock!" Then she remembered something else. "They should have been here before now," she said. He made no reply. His face was averted, and he was suddenly busy over the fire. "I think I can make you more comfortable;" and he disappeared among the trees, returning in a moment with his arms full of dried leaves, which he threw down before her. Two or three similar journeys and his work was done. "And now, if you will make a couch of it and put your feet to the fire, I think you may sleep for an hour or two. This mosscovered log may serve for once as a pillow. Wrap your shawl well about you, and don't be anxious; nothing can harm you. I shall not go far away." Then, as Katey prepared to follow his "You should wait until it has had time advice, he threw another armful of brush once. upon the blaze before vanishing into the darkness. She wrapped herself warmly, as he had told her to do. Sleep would not come at her bidding, but the change of position was restful, and with her cheek against the shawl she followed out the queries which his manner had raised within her. Why did he bid her sleep, and say nothing more of the party who would come to seek them? Had he given up all hope of it? She could not but feel that they should have been here before now. The blazing fire must be visible for miles. It would have guided any one to them at Or in the utter stillness of the night a voice would have reached them from a distance. But who was there at the school to start upon such a quest? Professor Paine, if he knew the circumstances. He was too rigidly just and conscientious to do otherwise. He would not let his bitterest enemy come to harm if he could save him. And in Professor Dyce's absence he was at the head of the house. But what would Miss Wormley say to him? What account of their disappearance would she give? And then, in a moment, the conviction flashed upon Katey's mind that Miss Wormley had willfully misled them and had deserted them at last. No one would come; it was useless to longer expect it. She sat upright with the thought. A step drew near, and Professor Dyce appeared. "Well?" and Katey's voice was strained and anxious. "I thought you were asleep, child." "I can't sleep. I believe I am nervous,' she added, with a little hysterical laugh. "Have you heard anything? Have you seen anything?" "Nothing at all!" He had thrown himself down before the fire. He did not avoid her eyes now. "We must rely upon ourselves," he said. "No one will come in search of us. They should have been here hours ago. Don't be frightened!" for Katey had buried her face in the folds of her shawl. "We shall have no difficulty in finding our way as soon as it is daylight. "You believe it?" and Katey's eyes searched his face. "Without a shadow of doubt." "Then try to sleep. We may have a long tramp before us yet." 66 I cannot; I feel like a gypsy;" and with the little red shawl twisted fantastically about her, as she drew nearer to the blaze, she looked not unlike one. "I begin to enjoy it, since there is really nothing to fear." He made no reply. She bent forward, her hands clasped around her knees, her dark face warm and bright in the fire-light. "Professor Dyce," she said presently, in a low, almost timid, voice. He raised his head from his arm, where he lay regarding her. "Well?"-when she did not go on. "I want to tell you something; only don't look at me, please." "Shall I cover my face, or turn away?" "Neither; only look at the fire; that will do; though I believe I am not afraid of you now." "Which implies that you have been?" and he raised his eyes quickly, then dropped them again. "I suppose so, since I am conscious that I am not now; but that is metaphysics." "In which gypsies are not supposed to indulge." There was a flutter of the leaves over head, moved by a passing wind. Far away in the distance the call of some night-bird awoke the stillness, as she paused again. "It is nothing," she went on slowly. "Only I should like to tell you about that night when we were detained at the Junction. I saw you in the concert hall. I—I was with the singers-you know." "Yes, I know;" and an odd smile crossed his face. 66 "You must have thought it strange?" she said, timidly. Her forehead flamed at the recollection of the little red petticoat. I believe I did; very strange." "But it was nothing at all." And then very quickly she recounted to him the story of her acquaintance with the Hauser. family. "Why did you not tell me of it at once?" he said, at its conclusion. "A word would have explained what could not but appear strange to me." "I was angry; I saw that you distrusted me." "Then there is nothing to be anxious about,' and her voice was cheerful and "Why should I not?" He had risen assured. while she was speaking, and paced back "You are warm?" and he fed the fire and forth now with short, impatient steps. again. "I was very rude to you afterwards," he "O yes; entirely comfortable, thank said presently. Then he took off his hat. "I beg your pardon." you." "And suffered for your silence. Or, perhaps, you did not suffer," and he eyed her sharply. 66 "Yes; it hurt me to be doubted so," she answered slowly. But- -" she regarded the fire thoughtfully without finishing the sentence. “I want to thank you," she said at last, raising her eyes and breaking the pause which he had not interrupted, “for everything. I can't talk about it," she added, hurriedly, while a little shadow stole over her face, but I want to assure you that I have appreciated your kindness all the time. I think I could sleep now," she You will stay here, and make yourself comfortable by the fire, I mean.' 66 Certainly; if you wish it." "I do, indeed. And then, perhaps, you will sleep in spite of your resolution. There is nothing to fear, you said?" "Nothing about us here, I assure you and, wrapped in her shawl, her head resting upon her moss-covered pillow, Katey soon forgot her troubles. (To be continued.) OUR ESCHATOLOGY. BY AN ORTHODOX MINISTER. THE specific purpose of this article is to consider only so much of what is usually included under the above heading as relates to the final condition of the dead, and to show that the current theories upon this subject are unreasonable and untenable. The traditional and common belief respecting the final allotments and experiences of men is that there are two distinct states-one of unmixed interminable woe; the other of unalloyed eternal happiness. But the last cannot be true unless the first is false. That is, the endless punishment of the lost will render perfect happiness in heaven impossible, because for the redeemed to be perfectly happy while the unsaved are completely and irremediably miserable, implies the destruction of those faculties of the soul which are essential to its existence, viz., perception, memory, and moral sensibility. The primitive suffering of vast multitudes will be known by the redeemed if they retain their ability to perceive facts. Now unless they have lost their moral sensibility, unless they have lost that pitying love and tender sympathy for their kind when in suffering, which most fits them for heaven, they will have sentiments of grief, of sorrow amounting to positive pain, as soon as they are aware of the fact that many, and, perhaps, some of their own relatives and friends, are suffering in hell. If this be so, there will be an alloy in their happiness, and, therefore, it will not be perfect. Their memory will also recall the circumstances of their earthly probation; their association with some who are now lost; the fact that they are dear friends and relations, with whom they were in daily contact, and whom they might have influenced for good, and who, but for their negligence, or worse, their evil influence, might now be among the redeemed. Will not such recollections be an alloy in the experience of the saints in heaven? They certainly will, unless they have been transformed into unfeeling monsters as worthy of hell as any they perceive to be there. example, "Here is a man who leads a life full of wickedness and evil-a life destructive of morality, of the peace of families, and the manhood of the young. He keeps one of the most corrupt saloons in the great city. Hundreds of young men are decoyed to this place of death. With his own hand he puts the intoxicating bowl to their lips; he leads them to places of prostitution and all uncleanness; he throws For of sympathy. Is there anything to authorize the belief that translation to heaven will take away from men those very qualities of character which are essential to their Christian manhood here? "Is there less nobility in heaven than on earth ?—a humanity less thoughtful, less sympathetic, less worthy of imitation?" Surely the justice and humanity of the upper world are not inferior to what would be called justice and humanity in this. And it is not conceivable that our preparation for heaven should require the abdication of those humane instincts and feelings which are our best adornment in this life. "We should be doing violence to that which is around them influences which make their degradation certain. Under the spell of the siren, whose tones charm them on toward the portals of woe, they are allured in the way of vice till the last carousal comes, and they enter that sleep which knows no waking. At last the spirit of God takes hold upon the conscience of him who has been the cause of all this corruption and ruin. He gives his heart to the Savior, is washed from his sins, and transformed by divine power, and when life is spent, through infinite love, is admitted to the joys of heaven. But where are those young men ? Ask him whose repentance was sincere, but who could not undo the work of ruin he had wrought..highest and most distinguishing in our Can his heaven be what it would have been were there no wailings in that dark world because of him? Must he not say, 'I did it? Is it possible that he should be indifferent to the consequences of his own acts?"* If so, then the work of grace by which he was prepared for heaven has made him less humane than he was after his conversion while yet on earth. For then the remembrance of his former wickedness, and its sad consequences, filled his soul with anguish. Surely he cannot have less moral sensibility, less tenderness in heaven than he had on earth. And though he may approve the justice of God in excluding the victims of his misconduct from heaven; yet, he will be conscious that his was the work that secured their unfitness for it, and, therefore, he must feel more than his earthly anguish of regret and sorrow at the awful consequences of his misdoing. If so, and so long as it is so, he cannot be perfectly happy. It will be said that this is an extreme case, and, perhaps, that all the conditions here supposed can never exist. But consider what must be the feeling of the "saints in light," in view of the future punishment of those whose sad fate they have done nothing to secure. Will they have no emotion of grief in view of the woes of the damned? Will the mere fact that they have had nothing to do with their ruin, render them indifferent to their misery? It is not so with good men on earth. They are shocked and pained at the sight of the punishment and suffering of men for whose crimes they are in no way responsible. And the higher the type of manhood, the more profound this feeling * Rev. L. R. Fisk, D. D., in the N. W. C. A. nature, were we to assume that at death we shall drop all these sympathies, and enter upon a state of unconcern in regard to the well-being of this great family of man. What would be the estimate in which we would hold any person who was utterly indifferent to the woe and evils which are visiting his fellow-beings? Heartless, we would say, unworthy the name of man! Would our judgment be any the less severe were this indifference said to be the result of either the inexpressible happiness, or the immaculate purity of the individual? If so, then happiness or purity make men less noble, less perfect in character. Angels are interested in the inhabitants of this world, as is shown by a multitude of incidents recorded in the Scriptures; and is it possible that departed spirits sustaining direct relationship to us should be wholly without sympathy for those connected with them by indissoluble ties?"* But it is said that such a sympathy "would put a damp on all the joys of heaven." But, even if this were true, it would still be a miserable shift of theology which should require the destruction of that which is the best fruit of the culture of divine grace-that which we are compelled to regard as most excellent, most God-like and most deserving of honor and praise in men-in order to secure their perfect happiness hereafter. There are some things in the universe that are better than perfect bliss. Goodness, benevolence, humaneness, sympathy, and love are better; and it is more important that they be preserved. If one or the other is to be sacrificed, there can be but one choice which; that is, with those * Dr. Fisk. |