LIFE THOUGHTS.

BY A. A. HAINES.

I. An Old Cathedral Song.

It was dim in the great cathedral; the shadows were growing long, when the organist slowly mounted the stairs that lead to the organ-loft.

On the old man's face a longing lay; a drear loneliness looked out through tired eyes; and as his fingers roamed the banks of keys he forgot, and into a dream his heart strayed.

On the air rose a low, sweet murmur of tall, old singing pines; of water falling gently in mossy, shallow ways; a hum and buzz and droning through seas of yellow grain; and in the corn-rows the night wind whispered and the long stalks swayed. A voice came lazily calling the cattle on the hill, and little bells faintly tinkled as the herd wound down the hill.

The birds chirped round the organ; they twittered and whirred 'neath the eaves, and the thrillings rang through the arches as if they were the trees. They sang of haunts in forests old where the light steals dim and gray; of swerving streams they loved to skim, that laughed through meadows wide. They trilled the joy of tree-tops tall, the bliss of azure heights, till the echoes flung the rapture back out of the shadowy gloam.

Then a rare sweetness crept into the music and wedded the joyous notes as they softly sang of the minstrels hidden deep in the green of the boughs-the bards, wee and downy, that were learning to tell of the dawn. It seemed as if all the sweetness, all the love throughout the world, had stolen through the dusky light into that cathedral old.

But as the light faded the songs were slowly hushed, and the last faint trilling ceased when the shadows passed into the

night. Through the hush and the darkness came the sound of a far-off roll, the dash of rushing water, a glimpse of sandy shore of rocks and torn, gray cliffs. The sound increased in volume till it became a mighty roar that thundered through the arches and shook in the great wide nave. It broke into chords big and crashing that seemed to flash with light; and in echoing aisles it muttered long as if telling that ancient secret, shrouded within the storm.

But in lingering diminuendos the shock and rumble ceased and a silence deep and hushful breathed through the heavy gloom. Upon the brooding stillness came low crescendo chords that whispered of the splendor that comes when the day is born, and slow across the darkness a gray-white glory rolled. It deepened and darkened and took on a glow of red, that crept along big purple heaps and left broad ruby roads. The broken bits of night it seized and wrapped in rosy veils; and in far-off fields of blue it caught huge shadows full of gloom, and softly spread about them a maze of glittering gold. On ragged, gray edges it threw strong glints of white, and o'er the whole horizon it moved until there was a sea of light.

Then up from the ocean of splendor a round radiance slowly rose, and all the world seemed hailing that long-expected dawn—the trust, the love, the rapture of the celestial

morn.

The cathedral lay in the moonlight; in the organ-loft all was still; but the music was in the old man's heart, and the dreamer lived his song.

II. The Garden of the King.

There is a wonderful garden that is hidden from truthless eyes, where no night steals through the shadows and the light neither withers nor blinds. Within its gates no sorrow dwells; no storm can cross the walls: it is the place where walks the King-the Eden of the soul.

The light shining there is wisdom-on towering heights it falls; about them no cloud or mist by earthly name is rolled. The paths of the garden are terraced, and flowered with countless joys; upward they stretch and upward-forever beyond they lead. A glimpse is caught by the poet and is set like a pearl in his song; sometimes the light from some lofty peak falls into the lover's dream.

A calmness moves through the garden, whose source is immortal peace; and the sounds there are noiseless knowings that are rooted in soundless truth. Fadeless, undying are its flowers their fragrance is the woof of visions and holy dreams; 'neath the hand that plucks them is a never-ceasing bloom. The loveliest flower in the garden is of transcendent hue; from a calyx of light its petals rise, dripping with golden dew. It blends its sweetness with every flower and whispers its wondrous charm; a touch of its beauty gives a glory to every bud and bloom. Though everywhere its charm is felt, the substance is unknown; its being no eye hath ever seen— only the perfume is known.

This fragrance breathes through the earth sometimes; then mortals fashion names. Some have called it Charity; others say it is Love. Though it wears innumerable forms as it moves through the restless world, its grace and sweetness in every age have always been the same.

The roads that lead to the garden where walks the silent King are many-many as there are hearts. But, alas! the road is often missed through the din of erring thought. Though the thought be true and steadfast, yet thought is not the path; thinking is only the footfall of the pilgrim on the pass.

He that hath found a pathway, he who is on the road, has fixed his heart immovable in the search for hidden truth. A desire so strong and constant lives within his soul that it peers through every action, and his thoughts it molds and stamps. No stooping, craven beggar, no crawling human worm with earth's dust and slime upon him, is ever on the road. The voice

of the true pilgrim contains no pauper note; for he knows the King has given, and the gifts lie in every soul. His eyes are raised to mountain-heights toward which the path ascends; the royal passport he is weaving-he is giving the King his heart.

He tunes his will to the Will Supreme and listens for the noiseless chord; slowly he follows the unseen Guide—the only intelligence he knows. In eternal justice he believes, in beginningless, endless Love; that these are the heartbeats of the universe, though oft it does not seem. With every soul he feels at one, for each is the King's own child; in eternity each is fixed and will some time reach a throne. In form alone he finds no kin, for true kinship is of soul; but he hears within each passing form a note of the Master's song.

He cons the world's gray book of life, and reads there o'er and o'er that sorrow through the dark door of ignorance steals, or glides through the bright gates of sin; that the wayward one ever places himself within the sound-shadow of the voice of truth. So he keeps upon the roadway striving to be calm and true, not far from other travelers who are hidden by earthly view: but he often hears their voices and knows their goal is his; that they seek that wondrous garden, but all by different roads. Every heart that is broad and loving, all that are strong and true are journeying along some sure path that leads to the King's highway.

The gates of the garden swing wide; they open night and day to him who has woven his passport-who has made the road his life. He enters the royal garden but he does not forget, for the memory of other travelers lives like a blossom within his heart. He calls to his brother pilgrims who are still upon the path, and they hear the strong voice calling and leap onward to the heights. The fragrance floats down the pathway; the light streams through the gate; and they know they are near the garden, that they will find the King-the Maker and the Keeper, the goal of every soul.

MATA THE MAGICIAN.

BY ISABELLA INGALESE.

CHAPTER XIX.

LITTLE MATA.

Suddenly an intense desire came over me to see my child, and I went to the nursery. The nurse sat dozing in her chair beside the swinging basket in which the little one was lying. Turning back the silken cover, I looked at the human mite that had caused me as I believed-all this misery. It was sleeping, and its beauty was something rare. Its little head was perfectly shaped, and what seemed most strange to me was the fact that it was thickly covered with rings of yellow hair of the same shade as that of its dead mother. In all my professional experience I had never seen anything like this. Its lashes were long and dark, and in every feature it seemed indeed a miniature Mata.

"But this is a female body," I mused; "how could Guru use it for his own? And yet he promised that he would."

It was a mystery too deep for my poor dizzy brain to solve, and I abandoned the task. With my finger I touched the baby's cheek. She stirred and opened her eyes. In the dim light I could not see their color, but I knew they were large and dark and prayed that they would be like my lost darling's. Suddenly a wave of loving protection streamed from my bursting heart toward this helpless little one, who was no larger than a doll; and somehow when that new feeling was born the old resentful one died, and I realized my true position.

"Yes," I said, "your coming has cost your mother her life; but you are ours, and I shall protect you. For your sake I will take up this tangled thread of life and go on winding the ball to the weary end. Sometimes the tangled snarl seems impossible to undo; again it is dragged in the mire and is trodden