A few weeks later Mr. Montgomery was summoned to Denver to meet a rich old uncle, who desired the companionship of his nephew for the brief remainder of his life. The principal part of the interview is subjoined: "I may as well tell you at once that if what I have heard about you of late is true I will have nothing to do with you, if you are my brother's son." "And what have you heard, may I ask?" said Charley, his face reddening at the implied insult. "Well, I have heard that you were studying to be a preacher, and if that is so you will have to give it up, that is all," he said, modifying his first assertion somewhat. "Well, you have heard the exact truth. I have been studying now for two years, and in another year I shall be ordained. If my life is spared it will be devoted to this work, and I trust that nothing will prevent my finishing the course I have mapped out." He said it in a proud, independent manner, as one who had no idea of changing his mind or purpose. The old man arose from his seat on the sofa and stood before his nephew, his tall form bent forward and his keen black eyes shining with suppressed passion. "Do you mean by that, that you will not give up preaching for anything I can offer? Do you realize what you are throwing away?" "This is not the first time in my life that I have been tempted with gold, and I say to you now what I have said before, that no mere worldliness can tempt me to disobey the call of the gospel." Young Montgomery requested Mr. Raymond, his uncle's lawyer, who was present, to ring for a servant to show him out of his uncle's house. As the young man was striding rapidly down the street, Mr. Raymond succeeded in overtaking him and pressed him to accept his hospitality, hoping that he might effect a reconciliation between nephew and uncle. During the evening the lawyer held a long and earnest conversation with the young man, which culminated thus: "Mr. Raymond," said Charley, leaning towards him with a flushed face, "let us thoroughly understand each other before we go any farther. My uncle said plainly that he hated churches and preacbers and would have nothing to do with them. And I, for my part, have decided to make the church my life work, and all he can say or offer will not shake my determination or change my purpose in the least. And as I have reason to believe he will not alter his views any, I cannot see how a reconciliation is going to be brought about." "You do not pretend to say that you will absolutely throw up all hopes of your uncle's money for the sake of preaching the gospel?" and the lawyer stared at the young man as if he were a natural curiosity. "I mean that identical thing," said Charley, setting his lips firmly together. Mr. Raymond yielded for the nonce and the gentlemen spent the remainder of the evening with the family. On the morrow, however, Mr. Raymond took Mr. Montgomery out ostensibly to show him the town but really to attempt again to find some vulnerable spot in the young man's armour. While riding they met Mr. Raymond's friend and pastor, who, being suddenly summoned from town was perplexed by the difficulty of finding a suitable person to occupy his pulpit the next day. Mr. Montgomery was asked to preach. Mr. Raymond succeeded in prevailing upon the uncle to go with him to the morning service. After the evening service, young Montgomery informed his host that he should see his uncle as he intended to leave the city on the following morning. Against the protests of his host, he persisted and the interview was very affecting: Charley took the cold, quivering hands between his own warm palmis, and said, anxiously, "Are you feeling sick to-night?" His uncle said in answer: "I have been sick ever since you came. I thought you ought to give up everything if I willed you my money, and I thought you a fool because you wanted to preach; but when I heard you this morning talk of how much Christ had sacrificed for us, and how He was tempted, and had resisted for our sakes, as I sat there I knew you felt every word you said. Oh! my old heart is broken." He added bitterly: "I have spent my whole life getting gold, and now it mocks me. I could not look at the silver on my dinner-table to-day, its glitter seemed like evil faces grinning at me. I would be glad to die, but I know I am not fit to be in the presence of the man-Christ that you pictured so plainly to me this morning. I have said and done all in my power all my life against the Church of God, and now I feel that the worst hypocrite whose name is on her books is better prepared for heaven than I am. I could go down on my knees to ask your pardon for what I said to you the other day." It was nearly an hour since they came together, and they were still holding each other's hands, when Theodore made his appearance and asked if Mr. Raymond's carriage should wait any longer. John Montgomery said promptly: "No, send it away, we do not want it to-night." And Mr. Raymond knew when Theodore told him what his master said, and how he was holding his nephew's hand and looking into his face, that Charley Montgomery had made no mistake in choosing the gospel in preference to his uncle's money, for now he was sure of both. The reader's attention will be arrested from time to time by a sentiment like this: It is good to know for ourselves that we have done our duty, but words of appreciation from lips we love are like springs of cooling water in the barren desert. They knew why their aunt had always disliked Berthy so much: but as they looked at her now, in a neatly-fitting dark blue dress, with its trimmings of cardinal velvet, her eyes sparkling with merriment, her parted lips showing a line of white teeth, they wondered that they had ever considered her homely; yet they had, for Kathey had said many times, "There is no use trying the effect of nice clothes on Berthy, for they seem to be thrown away." What was it then that had wrought this change? As if in answer to her thoughts, Berthy caught sight of her brother's arm, "Oh, Charley," she said, "where is the sling for your arm?" "I 'slung' it away so I could hug my new sister," he said, as he put his arm around her. Kathey knew by the light in the dark face that those words of love and endearment were what she had needed all her life to bring out not only the beauty of her face but the glow of soulful interest in everything that was good and noble, and she chided herself that she had allowed the little, motherless girl to starve in her very presence, when a word of kindness or love would have been to her as daily food. Why are hungry souls left to starve when a hearty grasp of the hand or a word of sympathy and encouragement or a glance of kindly interest even costs so little-nay, so enriches the giver? Perhaps it is because so many have not learned the lesson inculcated by our author thus: "When did you learn that sweet secret of submission? I was older than you before I accepted it." "From my spiritual guide," said Berthy, smiling and motioning toward the room occupied by her Quaker friend. "Then you have, indeed, much to be grateful to her for. I meet a great many life-long Christians who do not seem to understand what I mean by the Fatherhood of God; it is the only true source of happiness." He then went on to tell her something of his past life; how many struggles he had, and how mercifully he had been led through them all. "I have always felt that in God's hand I was the instrument sent to save the soul of poor Uncle John; that was the strongest temptation I ever had to resist. There I was in a strange city, with only a few dollars in the world, and not enough to pay my board a week. I felt I had some right to his money, for I was his legal heir; but he denounced all forms of religion, and declared I should not have anything to do with the ministry if I lived with him. His lawyer, after kindly inviting me into his house, advised me to lay aside my radical views, and accept the home and money he, too, thought I had a right to expect. I tell you it was a battle I found hard to fight, but the victory more than paid for the conflict. The last two years of my uncle's life were those of perfect peace." The quotations so freely made will serve to show that the atmosphere of the book is bracing, its doctrine sound, and that Mrs. Flewellyn accepts Emerson's dictum: "The only gift is a portion of thyself." A NEW ARISTOCRACY.* At the present time, when so many books of a trashy or artificial character are being put forth in elegant style and pushed by the great book houses, it is not surprising that works of fine ethical value and charmingly written, when published by obscure firms, fail to come "A New Aristocracy," by Birch Arnold. Bartlett Publishing Company, 30 & 32 West Thirteenth Street, New York, 46 West Larned Street, Detroit, Mich. Pp. 316; paper 50 cents. before the attention of thoughtful people who would appreciate their intrinsic value. Recently I chanced to read Birch Arnold's "New Aristocracy” and was greatly impressed with its value at the present time. The story is simply but charmingly told; it is unique in many respects, and from cover to cover it is charged with the luminous and redemptive thought of the new time. I think our author underrates the part which unjust legislation plays in pressing the masses downward to a point where they lose the sturdy self-reliance which is at once essential for success in the industrial struggle and to industrial and national progress. Unjust laws augment miserable conditions and deaden the independent and naturally hopeful spirit in the human breast. Hence in all our discussions we must insist upon the establishing of just conditions which favor an equality of opportunity. Our author very wisely emphasizes the necessity for individual development, and throughout the work throws out so many suggestions which will be helpful to earnest workers that I feel that this book merits a very wide reading, especially at the present time. As a story it is a delightful narration of the lives of three orphan children, thrown almost penniless on the world, on the death of their father, a rector in a village church. Their first experiment is in market gardening, and later their lives in the city, mingling with a larger world and bringing sunshine into many hearts, even when their own were shadowed, is very vividly brought out. The author aims to show the divine in the human heart of both rich and poor, and that the children of wealth no less than those "who are under the wheel" only reach the height where they know what true and enduring happiness is, when they learn to do for others, or adopt the principles of the Golden Rule into the web and woof of life. I would that "A New Aristocracy" could be placed in the hands of our people and that both young and old might read its bright, interesting and suggestive pages, for its influence could not fail to quicken conscience and inspire the divine in the heart of the reader. B. O. FLOWER. THE SNOWS OF YESTER-YEAR.* REVIEWED BY NEWELL DUNBAR. "Nay, never ask, this week, fair lord, But where are the snows of yester-year?" A story absolutely without action; occurring wholly within the bounds of a single Colorado house and garden; and containing * "The Snows of Yester-Year: a Novel," by Wilbertine Teters. 12mo, pp. 244; price, cloth $1.25, paper 50 cents. Arena Publishing Company, Boston. practically just four characters, of whom two are hopeless invalids, and another is little more than a hint. Yet, in a marked manner, this novel grasps the attention at the start and holds it to the very last word. It will be remembered that James Russell Lowell once confessed that, when a young man freshly glorified with his university's accolade, and so unquestionably empanoplied for the battle of life, casting about for some way in which to distinguish himself in the coming fray he was overwhelmed with the conviction that every device of attack had already been tried-that no unachieved exploit remained. Like the Poet in Schiller's parable he found the universe appropriated. This misery is one that stares every clever young man and young woman in the face. Yet the author of the "Biglow Papers" managed, and every true aspirant in literature or elsewhere manages, speaking paradoxically, to discover the non-existent: i. c., to find a peculiar field, an original vein. The doing this, it may be remarked in passing, grows more difficult every year-especially for minds of an overconservative cast. Fortunately, however, need of discouragement never exists; for there is and always will be a virgin fund in the universe ready to honor the drafts of the duly accredited, even though the returns made be merely in the form of old coin reminted. Miss (or Mrs.) Wilbertine Teters-unless, possibly, that striking name be just a nom de guerre-is to be congratulated on having achieved in some degree this prerequisite success of originality. The unusualness of her book in the respects designated, of course, is not fully perceived by us, until we have finished reading and reached the contemplative and purely critical stage where we roll over synthetically and analytically in our mind the outcome. At first we simply take her story up and, finding ourselves interested, and every once in a while as we proceed receiving a distinct tingle of intellectual or æsthetic enjoyment, just read on with growing appreciation to the end. How comes it that a delectable and strong effect results from SO apparently inadequate a cause? Or if the points specified at the beginning of this critique constitute obstacles in the way of the pleasure received rather than its cause, what is the richness that associated with them can overcome a poverty so pronounced? The story in the first place, then, is written in a strikingly bright and piquant style. There is a sparkle in the pages like Sévigné's. Further, they contain really subtile analysis and delineation of character; evince knowledge of the world, of society and of human nature, and abound in fresh, glancing, epigrammatic, witty and wise conversation, while they handle the "stage settings" effectively. (Colorado winters, by the way, furnish a subject that justly comes in for its full share of sarcasm.) The rise and progress of a tender |