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!" self down before the avoid her eyes now. ourselves," he said.

He had thrown himfire. He did not "We must rely upon "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 there is nothing to be anxious about,' and her voice was cheerful and assured.

"You are warm?" and he fed the fire again.

"O yes; entirely comfortable, thank you."

"Then try to sleep. long tramp before us yet."

We may have a

"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.

"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."

"Why should I not?" He had risen while she was speaking, and paced back and forth now with short, impatient steps. "I was very rude to you afterwards," he said presently. Then he took off his hat. "I beg your pardon."

"O, that is all long past," Katey replied, in confusion. "I deserved it. But I was too proud to speak."

"And suffered for your silence. Or, perhaps, you did not suffer," and he eyed her sharply.

"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

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

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. 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.

of sympathy. Is there anything to authorize the belief that translation to heaven will take away from men those very quali– ties 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 highest and most distinguishing in our 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.

spirit and teaching of the Gospel, which inculcates a fellowship with the sufferings of others, commanding us to weep with those that weep, and 'bear ye one another's burdens, and so fulfill the law of Christ.' It is contrary to the revealed character of God, whose very nature is to pity, not abortively, but with an active, curative, efficient sympathy, all suffering whenever and wherever He perceives it. To suppose God can see His own offspring suffering at any period of their existence, and not be moved with compassion toward them, is to divest Him of that very element of His character by which He holds sway over human hearts." He would no longer be the God revealed to us in the face of Jesus Christ, nor a Being whom the Christian heart could reverence and love.

It follows as a correlative truth that the divine Father can and does suffer in sympathy with the distressed. He is represented in the Scriptures as having sorrow, and this sorrow is of the nature of suffering, a painful experience, or it is nothing, a mere mockery of words.

It is said that such sympathy on the part of God for the lost "would be the destruction of the divine blessedness." But this does not follow. The only legitimate inference is, that God cannot be perfectly happy so long as any of his offspring are miserable. The Scriptures declare that God is "blessed forever;" but they no where say that he is perfectly happy. It is one thing to be perfectly happy, and another to be predominantly so. Doubtless, God's predominant experience must be one of happiness, since he has other and infinite sources of joy, besides the contemplation of the condition of mankind.

It is also said that any limitation of happiness is an imperfection, and, therefore, to say that God can suffer in sympathy for the lost, that he can experience the least "tinge of pain" from any cause, is contrary to the divine perfections. That is, God must be perfectly happy forever; though in order to be so, he be divested of that which is most excellent and lovely in any character, whether human or divine, viz.: a profound sympathy for all in distress, and invested with a demoniacal heartlessness and indifference to the misery of his immortal child!

But we have unmistakable evidence of

* From an article by the present writer in The Christian Union on "The Long-Suffering of God."

divine suffering in the agonies of the cross, which are wholly indefensible either as a just transaction or as an adequate method of redemption, on any other hypothesis than that the divine nature in Christ suffered with the human. It is urged by those who hold that the sufferings of Christ were vicarious, that their atoning efficacy depended on the dignity of the suffererthat the substitute must be divine as well as human. But how can this be true if the divine nature did not suffer? If a theanthropic character was necessary to Christ's mediatorial work, and if the suffering of the cross was an essential part of that work, then there could be no atoning efficacy in that suffering unless it was also theanthropic.

Moreover, the cross was not even an expression of God's love, if he did not suffer in the crucifixion of Christ. What evidence of the love of God was there in a suffering in which he did not and could not participate? But God himself, rebukes this cheap zeal to honor his perfections by the declaration, "God is love," and by assuring us that it is the conclusive evidence of his love that He did suffer to save sinners: "But God commendeth his love toward us, in that, while we were yet sinners Christ died for us"-not that "God died," but that he "tasted death for every man," which has no meaning at all, unless it be that the divine nature in Christ suffered.

We are authorized by the Scriptures, and constrained by the laws of our rational and moral being, to think of God as having a nature like our own, and to invest Him with those attributes of character which are the best fruit of the culture of His spirit in the hearts of men. It is regarded as a crowning excellence in a man that he has an active sympathy for his fellow men in distress, which leads him to personal sacrifice in their behalf, and to share their sorrows in order to alleviate them. To say that a man had no capacity for such virtue, would argue an imperfection in his moral character, instead of honoring him. And the statement that God can suffer does not imply an imperfection in the divine character. It simply asserts a defect in His happiness, that through His sympathy for suffering humanity His own blessedness is impaired. But a defect in God's happiness for such a cause, instead of being an imperfection, gives greater luster to His character. It is the denial of this that dishonors Him.