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��MARY'S REWARD.

��white, jewelled hand extending a glass of wine toward him. He was then on the high road to wealth, was respected and made much of. IVhat was he noio I A disgrace to his sister and himself. Was there, could there be hope for such as he? For the first time in many years, he knelt down and prayed long and fer- vently, and his prayer was for forgive- ness and help. His prayer ended, still he knelt, thinking of the days ot his boy- hood, when his dear mother had taught him to pray, and had told him of the kind, loving father, so tender and merci- ful, "the same yesterday, to-day, and forever," and his heart gave a throb of joy at the thought. He would try again, and, God helping him, become a man once more.

He waited until his sister left the room, and then he stole cautiously forth lest she should hear him. When he came in to tea he greeted her with a kiss, the first for many long weeks, and the lips that pressed hers were free from the taint of liquor. It was now toward the close of July, and the sultry heat of the city made Mary long for the cool, pleas- ant walks and drives of Maplewood. Early in June they had conveyed the form of their mother to its last resting- place beside their father. They had passed a few days at their old home, but strangers were there, and it brought too forcibly to mind their great and irrepar- able loss, so they had soon returned to the city, but Mary felt an eager, passion- ate longing for her old home stealing over her as the days grew more sultry. Consequently, when Eugene proposed returning to the country, she unhesitat- ingly announced her readiness to accom- pany him. He wished to free himself from the temptations which surrounded him, and, beside, he longed for the sweet balmy air of his boyhood's home.

��Five years and more have passed and gone, and brought with them many changes. Once more it is evening in the great city. The moon and stars shine as brightly as they did upon that night so long ago, when first I introduced to the reader the characters of my story. The City Hall is brilliantly lighted and filled

��to repletion. To-night the celebrated temperance lecturer, Eugene Ross, is to speak to the people who congregate to hear him, and they have poured in until the vast hall is completely filled; then the doors are closed, and the hearers await the appearance of the lecturer.

For the past two years he has been ab- sent from the city. The first two were devoted to labor and study, the last he has passed in travelling from place to place, lecturing wherever he judged his words were the most needed. At length he stands before the waiting throng, and as his eyes wander from face to face and he sees and recognises many familiar ones, he realizes more forcibly than ever before how great a change five years have wrought in him. He looks even younger than when we first saw him, for then dissipation had given to the noble face a worn, haggard look. Now the dark brown eyes are steady, and the handsome face wears a look of almost boyish hope and happiness. Would that I possessed the power to depict faithful- ly the grand sublimity of his words, which seemed inspired. Suffice It to say that he held his hearers spell-bound un- til the close of his lecture. Then a burst of applause greeted him that brought the tears to the eyes of a lady sitting near the rostrum, and whose tender, loving glance has encouraged him throughout the evening. Bowing low before the audience, he steps down and hastens to her side. It is his sister, Mary Ross no longer, however, but the honored wife of Theodore Carr, who. proud and happy, stands by her side. Two years ago she became his wife, and the days have been full of happiness for her.

" Brother, do you know how happy I have been to-night?" said Mrs. Carr, after they had entered the carriage and were being driven toward home. Eugene's voice was full of intense feeling as he re- plied :

'" Mary, had you not persevered in your noble efforts, to-night I should have lain in a drunkard's grave. Under God, I owe my life, everything, to you and your husband. If you are perfectly hap- py, my sister, it is no more than your just reward. You have known many

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