Crawford avalanche. (Grayling, Mich.) 1879-19??, 1894-04-26
IS 4 CONSEQUENCE.
MARY A. SAWYER.

Deacon Albany SaU at Tine Cea-UaDle.
1t was warm night, the east wind
that had tempered the days heat
having died away, and his coat, worn
because of the presence Of guest,
made him uncomfortable. His eye
was stern, and his voice almost irri.
table, as he addressed his niece who
sat at the head of the table.
Then you and Sarah won't neither
Of you go?" he asked.
''No, uncle we are going to party.
! told you this morning"
1--WE positively cannot go to prayer
meeting with you tonight, Deacon
Albany" said Sarah Cooke. ~
might be spared, but who could or
would have party without Meg?"
The deacon groaned aloud. He
pushed aside his cup Of tea, and
leaning an elbow on the table, looked
with a hard, strong glance at his
niece, who, young, pretty. and be-
comingly attired in a freshly-ironed
! pink calico, sat quietly pouring the
tea.
"You young things will be sorry
some day." he said. wait till the
alarming hand Of death gifts it's
clutch on you, an you'll repent an
cry out an smite yourselves in fear
an trembling, but it'll be too late
then to git in. You III find the door
shut, an shut tight. 1t amt held
open forever an forever, whilst folks
is dancin', an dispisin' the way O.
salvation. It'll be shut you'll find. "
He waxed warm, as he spoke, and
his voice had q high, shrill note in it,
which brought additional color into
his niece's cheeks. She wished he
would not 60 on like that, she said
to herself, impatiently. Why
couldn't he let them alone? What
harm was there in little party, a
little gathering of friends, that he
should go on SO?
Sarah Cooke stirred her tea and
looked at him calmly. 'Is there
much difference in death-beds, Dea-
con Albany" she asked presently.
Meg stared at her, and the deacon
glared at her. do hear We aright?'
he said sharply, do you, the daugh-
L
and ask me if there is any difference
,twixt the death-bed of Christian
an the death-bed of an unconverted
sinner"
II don't believe there is much diff
ference" said Sarah. People who
are sick enough to die are too sick to
have any fear of anything"
"You don't know what you are
talkin' about" replied the deacon.
"You haven't never seen folks die,
an you don't know. But / have
seen folks die, plenty of 'em, an
tell you there amt no more heart
rendin' sight than to see an uncon-
verified sinner writhing an tossing
about, all in an agony of fear, groan-
in an cryin' aloud, an KNOWN in
his heart that he has put it of too
J long, that a lifetime of remorse is
his sure portion in the next world.
Oh, it is terrible, terriblel And here
you be, you two young things, put
ting it of, an dancing and feasting,
stead O. going to prayer-meetin' an
findin' out the way o. salvation"
Sarah listened quietly. She had
often attended the weekly prayer
meeting, where she had heard words
of similar import fall from the dea-
cons lips. Meg, also, was familiar
with them. Ordinarily they seemed
to her simply part Of the table
conversation, to which she need
make no reply. Tonight, they
reused in her spirit of defiance.
II don't believe there's much diff
ference" she said.
whats that, hey?"
Meg's voice faltered little but she
went on boldly. 'I'd guess II it was
you and me, Uncle Simon, I'd die
just as quiet as you would. / amt
a mite afraid Of making q great fuss
when / die.
Deacon Albany rose and pushed
his chair against the wall. The flush
of anger faded from his face, his voice
was less hard. II have been right
eous man, "he said," and / expect te
die the death Of the righteous. Death
has no terror for the righteous man,
1t is but the last sleep, there is nc
fear, no clinging to life, no remorse.
Such will be my death-bed, but fol
you, my child, am sore afraid"
He went away out of the room.
His boots creaked, and he walked on
tip-toe, as IL the grim, shad owing
presence were waiting upon the
threshold. The two young women were
silent for few moments after his
departure. There had been a culver
in his voice which touched them.
Meg was the first to speak. II sup
pose ought to go to prayer-meeting
more" she said. suppose
ought to go tonight"
Sarah made no reply. She crum-
bled bit OF bread into fine frag-
ments, whilst Meg, in whose ears
still fingered the words "my child, "
watched her absently.
Suddenly Sarah spoke. Don't
you want me to make you few day.
visit3" she asked.
Meg's eyes shone, as she answered
eagerly: Don't II Will you really?
VIII your"
Sarah mimicked her earnest voice.
"Will 1? Well" with a laugh, latter
inviting myself, / think will.
A week later, the deacon, Sarah
and Meg were again seated at the
table. Meg had removed the first