CHAPTER XVII.

DISTRICT INCIDENTS.

ELEVENTH NEBRASKA CONFERENCE--BISHOP AMES--OLD SERMONS--U. P. R. R. COMPLETED--RAPID GROWTH OF THE CHURCH--HASTINGS--OVERTAKEN IN A FEARFUL STORM--THREE MEMORABLE QUARTERLY MEETINGS--SAD DEATH OF A WORLDLING--THE DUTCHMAN'S CURSE--THE CONFUSED HOSTESS--NO DESIRE TO DANCE.

HE eleventh session of the Nebraska Annual Conference was held in Lincoln, beginning March 29, 1871. Bishop Ames presided. This was his fourth visit to Nebraska. Being personally acquainted with many of the preachers, he received a cordial welcome. His sermon on Sabbath morning was a masterpiece. His text was Rev. xix, 10: "The testimony of Jesus is the spirit of prophecy."
     A few months afterwards he preached the same sermon in Washington. A correspondent of the Central Christian Advocate, in writing to that paper said in substance: "I heard Bishop Ames preach this sermon in St. Louis thirty years ago. It was delivered yesterday with the same power, the same fire, and the same wonderful effect it

was thirty years previously." Age and use had done it no harm, but had rather sharpened its edge and increased its force and power. A sermon need be none the less efficient, elegant, and powerful because of age. A faithful minister may lop off, add to, and retouch an old sermon until it will sparkle and flame with beauty and power. I think it was Whitefield who said he had to preach a sermon the thirtieth time before he could preach it perfectly. A minister ought not to preach an old sermon unless he makes it better every time he delivers it; then every time it will be new.
     General Sheridan made a little speech in London that electrified the world. All at the time thought it impromptu. It was published and commented upon by many of the papers of Europe and America. It was afterwards ascertained, however, that it had been carefully written and rewritten, touched and retouched, until every sentence was a polished gem. Then it was perfectly committed to memory, and at the proper time delivered with overwhelming effect.
     Abraham Lincoln's famed speech at Gettysburg was thought by some to be impromptu. It is said that just before reaching Gettysburg he took a slip of paper and jotted down the notes for it. But, without doubt, previously every sentence had been carefully thought out, and every word weighed.

The speech was brief, but every sentence was a diamond of the first water. Splendid productions are the result of deep thought and hard labor. A splendid sermon, carefully and prayerfully prepared, may be repeated a hundred times, before new audiences, with increasing rather than diminishing power.
     The three years preceding 1871 were years of great prosperity in the young State.
     One of the great events of the nineteenth century was the completion of the Union Pacific and Central Pacific Railroads. This wonderful event took place May 10, 1869. "On that day two oceans were united, a continent was spanned with iron bands, and a revolution was accomplished in the commerce of the world. California shook hands with New York, and the mingled screams of steam-whistles upon engines constructed three thousand miles distant waked the echoes of the mountains."
     No State in the Union shared more largely the grand results of that most wonderful achievement than Nebraska. This great highway of the Nation runs through the entire length of the State from east to west, a distance of over four hundred miles. Along this public highway, up the great valley of the Platte, thousands of emigrants came to settle and make their permanent homes. The admission of Nebraska as a State into the Union,

and the building of the Union Pacific Railroad gave to it a new and wonderful impetus.
     The Burlington and Missouri River Railroad was pushing its way to the West. Emigration was pouring in from the East. The Church was "enlarging the place of her tents, stretching forth her curtains, lengthening her cords, and strengthening her stakes." Everywhere Churches were springing up and growing most rapidly.
     Bishop Ames, being a Western man, readily took in the situation, and planned the work accordingly.
     In 1870 there were three districts and forty stations and circuits. This year the bishop made five districts and fifty-nine stations and circuits, an increase of two districts and nineteen stations and circuits over last year. I was appointed presiding elder of the Lincoln District, which embraced the counties of Lancaster, Cass, Polk, Hamilton, Adams, Clay, and Fillmore, the eastern half and northern part of Seward, the west half of Otoe, and all of Saunders and Butler Counties, except a few appointments in the northern part of these counties, including an area of about five thousand miles. My first district, in 1861, embraced all the territory south of the Platte River; my new district was only about one-fifth as large as my first.
     In addition to the twelve appointments assigned

me at the Conference, Bishop Ames requested me to superintend the work on the line of the Burlington and Missouri River Railroad as far west as Fort Kearney, and organize and supply the work as fast as the necessities of the case might demand. The western terminus of the Burlington and Missouri River Railroad at this time was Fairmont. I immediately employed Rev. George W. Gue, transferred from the Central Illinois Conference, to go into Fillmore County and organize a circuit. He went to work, visiting the people, and preaching to them in their cabins, sod-houses, "dug-outs," and tents, and succeeded in organizing several classes, receiving into the Church ninety-nine members.
     There were no towns west of Fairmont, south of the Platte River. The place where Hastings now stands was then an untrodden prairie, save by the Indians and wild animals that roamed the plains. That year Walter Micklen homesteaded the quarter-section of land on which a part of the city of Hastings now stands. It seems almost incredible, nevertheless it is true that, only twenty years ago, the land now occupied by the city of Hastings belonged to the Government, and the thought of a city being built there had never entered the mind of a living soul. Where only twenty years ago nothing was seen growing but the wild prairie-grass, and the beautiful prairie-flowers, and the only inhabitants were the savage

Red-men and the wild beasts, to-day stands a great city, which is one of the great railroad centers of the State, and which is destined to go on increasing in wealth and population for all time. Hastings has had a marvelous growth. Her future brightens every year.
     Three new charges were organized during the year, and there was a net increase in the membership of eight hundred and forty-three. In my report to the Conference at the close of the year I said: "At Fairmont, nine months ago, there was not a single house; nothing but the wild, unbroken prairie, stretching away in every direction, as far as vision could extend. Now these prairies are dotted all over with houses; large farms have been opened, thousands of acres have been broken and prepared for crops this season. Fairmont was then nothing but a grassy plain; now it is a thriving village with five stores, a large hotel, a beautiful church, with a live and intelligent membership. As I have traveled over these counties, and looked upon this beautiful and most delightful country, with its broad and undulating prairies, its many winding streams, skirted with timber, meandering in every direction; with its deep black soil, unsurpassed in richness; as I have mingled with the settlers in their rude dwellings, and partaken of their hospitalities, in the cabin, the sod-house, and the 'dug-out;' as I

have conversed with them upon their present and future prospects; as I have heard them tell of the many friends away back in Eastern States that were soon coming to join them in their Western homes, it has seemed that I could almost hear 'the tramp of the coming millions,' and see villages and cities rising in every direction, and farms crowning every hillside and beautifying every valley; and then, as I have thought of the great work for the Church to accomplish in this new land, I have involuntarily exclaimed, 'Who is sufficient for these things?' We tremble when we think of the responsibilities resting upon us as God's servants. Here must be laid deep and broad the foundations of our Zion. This country must be given to God. These 'coming millions' must be won to Christ. These villages and cities must be crowded with churches. God's people must breast the waves of wickedness flowing into these cities, villages, and rural districts. The religious element must keep pace with the material development of the State, or we as a Church will be culpable, and on our skirts the blood of immortal souls, at the judgment day, will be found. I have held meetings in the beautiful church, in the tented grove, in the frame and sod schoolhouse, in private dwellings built of sod, and in the 'dug-out,' and in all these places of worship--some of them rude sanctuaries indeed--and have

witnessed the most signal displays of divine power in the conversion of souls. And the many happy meetings we have had in these planes of worship will never be erased from memory. I have been forcibly reminded of the fact that happiness comes not from surroundings, but from within, and have changed that couplet a little, and sung,

'Sod-houses palaces. prove,
     If Jesus dwells with us there."

     Many interesting events took place while I was traveling this district.
     On June 10, 1871, I left home and started for my quarterly meeting on the Seward Circuit. About four o'clock in the afternoon I was overtaken by the heaviest rain and hail storm of the season. I was on the open prairie and miles from any house, and wholly unprotected from the storm. The only thing for me to do was to make the best of it--"grin and bear it." I was completely drenched with the rain, and severely pelted with the hail. My poor ponies seemed to suffer more than I did myself from the violence of the storm. They held their heads down between their forelegs, doubted themselves up, turned from one side of the road to the other, and at one time stood stock-still, and my whalebone whip was powerless to make them move an inch. Providentially, the hail lasted only a few moments, or we should all have perished. At Lincoln great damage was done. Cul-

verts were washed away, cellars flooded, houses unroofed, and goods and property damaged to the amount of many thousand dollars. The storm passed, the clouds broke away, and the sun came forth shining more brightly than ever. Just at dark we reached Seward, covered with mud, wet to the skin, sore from the pelting hail, and in miserable plight generally. I stopped over night with my old friend, Brother Davis. The next morning I went fifteen miles northwest, up Lincoln Creek, to where the Quarterly Meeting was to be held. The meeting was in a sod school-house. The walls were of sod, two feet thick; the roof was of plank laid on rafters. In the fall the planks were covered with sod, to keep out the cold. In this rude house, at the appointed hour, the people assembled, and God came with them.
     In the early settlement of Ohio and Indiana, the people lived in log cabins, with floors made of puncheon. But here, on the prairies of Nebraska, the early pioneers lived and worshiped God in houses made of sod-built entirely of the turf, from foundation to roof. Along the streams, where logs could be procured, there were a few cabins.
     At two o'clock I preached to a most devout and attentive congregation, held Quarterly Conference, and then, in company with the pastor, Brother Burlingame, went to Brother Reynolds's,

one of the stewards, to stay over night. The house was small. It had but one room, which served as parlor, dining-room, kitchen, and bedroom. About four rods from the house I discovered a new building, made of logs, seven feet square and five feet high. In this strange building was a door three feet high and about two and a half feet wide. I wondered what it was for. I said to myself, "It must be a chicken-house." Supper over, the hour for retiring came, and after the evening prayer I was conducted to the seven by seven building. Stooping, I entered the little door and found a comfortable bed, with clean, snow-white sheets. Here the presiding elder was stowed away, and slept soundly till morning. When I awoke, the sun was pouring his mild genial rays through the wide cracks between the logs. I arose greatly refreshed. and feeling strong for the day's work before me.
     A large awning in front of the school-house had been made of boughs from the trees that grew along the banks of the creek near by. The space beneath the awning was seated, and would accommodate as many as the house itself. Early in the morning crowds were seen coming from various directions over the new-made roads. The house was packed, the seats under the awning were filled, and many stood at the windows, and in front of the awning. Some came in their bare feet and

shirt-sleeves, some on foot, and some in ox-teams. The people were all poor, having come from Eastern States to get homes under the "Homestead Law." They were poor, so far as worldly goods are concerned, but were "rich in faith and heirs of the kingdom." This their tears, their prayers, their faith, their songs and radiant countenances well attested.
     What people want to make them happy is not earthly riches, but "godliness with contentment;" not fine mansions, but Jesus in the soul.
     November 24th, of this year, I held a quarterly meeting on this circuit, twelve miles north of Seward, at the private residence of Brother Crosby. Brother Crosby was a steward, and one of the leading members of the Church. The dwelling was made of sod, and covered with the same material, but within the walls were plastered beautifully white, giving it an air of neatness and comfort. Brother Crosby and his excellent and amiable wife made all feel at home. At two o'clock I preached and held Quarterly Conference. Late in the afternoon the wind changed to the north, it began to snow, and the weather became intensely cold. Brother Wilkerson and family rode four miles in an ox-team that night, facing that terrible storm, to meeting. When they reached the house they were so chilled and so near frozen they could hardly get out of the

wagon, and into the house. As they entered, the people were singing,

     "We're going home, we're going home."

     An excellent spirit pervaded the congregation. Although almost frozen, Brother Wilkerson caught the inspiration in an instant; his eye kindled, his countenance lit up with unearthly joy, and he said to me as he stood by the stove warming: "When half-way here I came very near going back, but I bless God I came on." In two minutes after, he entered the room he seemed more than rewarded for his cold and dreary ride. On Sabbath morning the wind blew a perfect gale, and the air was filled with snow and frost. The mercury was down to sixteen degrees below zero. Facing this storm, Brother Wilkerson and family rode four miles in an ox-team, and were with us at the love-feast at nine o'clock. I shall never forget the experience of Sister Wilkerson at that love-feast. Her face was radiant with joy. She stood on Pisgah's top, and the glories of heaven seemed all mapped out before her. Every word was an electric shock to the congregation. The angel of the new and everlasting covenant hovered over the assembly; God was with his, people, and his saving power was wonderfully displayed. After preaching and administering the sacrament, several united with the Church. That meeting, in Brother

Crosby's private dwelling, on the wild and bleak prairies of Nebraska, will be remembered forever.
     My next quarterly meeting was on the Milford Circuit. The place fixed for holding the meeting was a school-house, three miles west of Camden. My home during the meeting was at Brother William Staunton's. He was a cousin of the Hon. Edward Staunton, then Secretary of War under Abraham Lincoln's administration. Brother Staunton lived in a log house on the bank of a small creek. The weather was bitter cold. On Sabbath the mercury was down to twenty-eight degrees below zero, and the wind from the north was so strong it blew the shingles from the roof of the house. Water thrown into the air would freeze into ice, like bullets, before it reached the ground. It was dangerous for a person to undertake to travel any distance. A few rods from Brother Staunton's house, in the bank of the creek, was a "dug-out," or a cave dug in the side of a hill; the south end, and east and west sides, were partly made of logs, the roof was made of poles and brush covered with earth. This "dug-out" was very warm. In this Brother Fair and family lived, and here we held our quarterly meeting. In the forenoon we had two families at service, and at night three. After the sermon I called for "seekers;" four came forward and kneeled down for prayers. An unusual manifestation of

the Divine presence was felt. We sang and prayed and talked until all four were clearly and powerfully converted. The storm raged fearfully without, but within we had calm, peace, joy, and spiritual victory. Thirteen years afterwards, when appointed to the York Station, I found two of those that were converted in that "dug-out" at that quarterly meeting, members of my choir, faithful and consistent Christians, and joyfully pursuing the path they entered thirteen years before. The good accomplished at that meeting, on that cold December day, will only be known in the great day of eternity. From that meeting went out a salutary influence that will go on forever. God is not only in the splendid church, where crowding thousands meet to worship, him, but in the humble cabin as well, and in the un-pretentious "dug-out," far away on the Western prairies.
     That same winter, 1871, I left home for a two weeks' tour up into Butler and Polk Counties. I had two quarterly meetings to hold, one in Butler and one in Polk County. My course from Lincoln was northwest. I left Lincoln in the morning, and, after traveling some hours, found myself on the divide between Oak Creek and Seward. Although the road was new, one I had never traveled, I felt perfectly safe, because the points of the compass were clear in my mind,
     22

and I felt sure I was going in the right direction. I was facing the wind, and about two o'clock it began to snow, and the wind blew with increasing violence. The snow fell thicker and faster, and the wind rose higher and higher. I found I was losing the points of the compass. The blinding storm bewildered me. The road was filling with snow so fast it was with great difficulty I could see it at all. I knew very well that in a little while I should lose my way, and be entirely at the mercy of the awful storm. Silently I breathed a prayer to God for guidance. In a short time afterwards I discovered at my right a dim road leading down a deep ravine. I entered this road, and followed it for two miles, when I discovered, in a clump of trees beside a beautiful creek, a log cabin. The sight of this cabin brought joy to my heart. My fears in a moment were all gone, and I breathed easy once more. The man of the house was at the barn putting away his horses, and when I rode up, spoke to me very kindly. I requested the privilege of remaining with him during the night, and the request was most cheerfully granted. I entered the cabin, and found a splendid fire, which I greatly enjoyed after the cold day's ride. This man and his excellent wife were members of the Baptist Church, and devoted Christians. They

had just returned from the grave of a neighbor, and I said to them:
     "Was your neighbor a Christian?"
     "O no," was the reply. "He was a man of the world He was a very wicked man. He pretended to be an infidel, and worked on the Sabbath just as on any other day. He had bought a large tract of land and was working hard to improve it. He seemed determined to be a rich
     "Well," I said, "how did he die?"
     "Without any hope," was the reply. "A short time before he died, he said, 'O, I can not die, I can not die. If I only had my life to live over again, how differently would I live!' He exhorted his friends not to live as he had lived. 'If I could just live my life over, I would live a Christian life,' were among his last words."
     It was the old story over again--the story that has been repeated all along the ages, and I fear will go on repeating itself until the trump of God shall call a wicked world to judgment--a life of sin and a death of despair. He had lived "as the fool liveth, and died as the fool dieth."
     The next morning the storm had ceased, the weather greatly moderated, and I passed on to

my appointment in Butler County, then on into Polk County, and after two weeks of hard labor and weary travel, returned to my home to rest only three or four days, then to go out again on a similar trip.
     The last day, of 1871, and the first day of 1872, I spent in Plattsmouth, holding quarterly meeting. I find in my diary the following: "The old year passed away amid very pleasant surroundings. The first day of the new year we had a most excellent love-feast; in the morning had, great liberty preaching the word. A deep feeling pervaded the congregation."
     The Methodist Episcopal Church has never given an uncertain sound on the temperance question, and on this she has a record of which she may well be proud. The wicked, unwittingly, often highly compliment the Church touching her unstained record on this subject. When the Rev. J. G. Miller was stationed in Plattsmouth he was at one time raising money to procure a house of worship for the Church. He went into a saloon, kept by a German, with his subscription. When he entered, the saloon-keeper made a very polite bow, stepped behind the bar, and asked him what he would take. Brother Miller said: "I am raising money to build a church, and I have a subscription here, and I have called to see how much you will give."

     "What church?" said the saloon-keeper.
     "The Methodist church."
     "Te Metodist, te Metodist church, eh? Te Metodist dey drink no beer; dey drink no whisky; dey play no billiards. T-m te Metodist church. Me give tem no cent."
     On February 17th and 18th I held quarterly meeting at Seward. Seward at this time was a thriving village of some three hundred inhabitants, and was the head of the circuit. The people came from the various appointments on the work to the meeting. Brother A. J. Combs, a young man with a soul all on fire for souls, was the pastor. Brother Combs has long since entered upon his reward. The revival flame had swept over the entire circuit. At every appointment the people were clothed with panoply divine. Some came thirty-five miles to the meeting. To a soul filled with the Holy Ghost the distance to church amounts to nothing at all. The pastor, in announcing the quarterly meeting, requested those coming from a distance to bring their own bedding, as there were but few members in Seward, and sleeping apartments were scarce. The Masonic Hall was used as a bedroom, and was filled with men during each night of the meeting. Brothers Beatty and Davis provided meals for large numbers, each feeding from thirty-five to forty, and providing sleeping apartments for the

women. At every service the house was packed to its utmost capacity with devout and attentive listeners. After the sermon on Sabbath morning I was called a few blocks away to marry a couple. This I did while the collection was being taken. Then I returned to the Church, and administered the sacrament. The meeting throughout was one of great power. Many souls were converted, and the Church greatly quickened. It was a Pentecost from the beginning to the end.
     In the month of February, 1872, a revival of religion took place at the Haynes School-house, in Butler County, under the labors of Rev. William Worley, assisted by Rev. Joshua Worley and Rev. James Query. Here a class was organized, and on the 20th day of the following December I held a quarterly meeting at this school-house. This was the first quarterly meeting ever held in this neighborhood. Near where this schoolhouse stood now stands the beautiful village of Garrison. Brother Haynes lived in a "dug-out" a mile and a half away. On Saturday, when about to leave for the meeting, his wife, who, was unable to attend, said to him: "Bring all to supper who will come, but do not invite any one to stay all night; and, above all, do not invite the presiding elder." Brother Haynes disregarded the instructions of his excellent wife, and took the presiding elder home with him to tea.

     This disregard of his wife's request gave the good sister great distress of mind for a little while. When the elder entered the "dug-out," Sister Haynes was greatly confused, and attempted to stammer out an apology; but the elder instantly came to her relief by saying: "O, sister! a sod-house may be a palace if we have Christ with us." They were from the East, and had been used to much better things, and their present surroundings were humiliating to them in the extreme. Many years afterwards Sister Haynes said to the writer: "The look the presiding elder gave me, and the words he spoke, at once banished all my false pride." Then the thought of the elder's staying over night with them was another source of great anxiety and trouble to the heart of the good sister. What to do with him, and where to put him to sleep, were indeed perplexing questions. Just at this juncture, however, Brother Haynes greatly relieved the burdened heart of his much-distressed wife by saying that arrangements had been made for the elder to stay at a neighbor's, who lived in a frame house. All went to service on Saturday night; but the party living in the frame house did not put in an appearance, and the only thing for Brother Haynes to do was to invite the elder to go home with him. As Sister Haynes neared her rude "dug-out," she was greatly surprised to see a

gentleman walking in company with one of her sons, carrying a valise. A nearer approach revealed to her the awful fact that the gentleman was the identical and much-dreaded elder. The elder, seeing how wonderfully confused the good sister was, endeavored, as much as possible, to relieve her embarrassment, and earnestly prayed that his stay might prove a benediction rather than an annoyance and trouble to the kind family. How much these brave men and women, in the earlier settlement of the State, suffered, not only for the necessary comforts of life, but from chagrin and humiliation as well!
     The year before I was appointed to the district, while stationed in Lincoln, at the request of my presiding elder I went out and held a quarterly meeting for him on the Oak Creek Circuit. The meeting was in a private house on the bank of Oak Creek, near where the village of Raymond now stands. The good man and his wife who kindly opened the doors of their house for the meeting were not Christians. At the close of the afternoon service, on Saturday, I was cordially invited to make my home with them during the meeting. I accepted the kindly invitation, and was most pleasantly entertained by them until Monday morning. That first pleasant visit with that kind family will never be forgotten. It ripened into the warmest and most last-

ing Christian friendship. Though not Christians themselves, they were quite free to talk on the subject of religion. On this subject they were more than ordinarily communicative. We had several pleasant conversations on religion during my stay. On Monday morning, while my horse was being harnessed and brought to the door, I again spoke to the lady on religion. She said. "I would like to be a Christian. My husband would like to be a Christian. We have talked the matter over many times, and we expect to become Christians some day. But if we were to become Christians, we could not join your Church."
     "Why not?" said I.
     "Because," said she, "it is contrary to the rules of your Church for its members to dance."
     "Yes, that is true," said I. She continued:
     "My husband and I do not think there is any harm at all in dancing. We go to our neighbors', and have a pleasant, social dance almost every week, and we do not think, there is anything wrong in it. So, of course, we could not join your Church."
     I said to her: "Sister W., you get religion, and you may dance." She looked at me with surprise. I continued: "You get religion, and you will have no desire to dance." This closed the conversation. I thanked her and her good
     28

husband for their kindness, stepped into my buggy, and drove home.
     At the next Conference I was appointed presiding elder of the district. Just one year from the time I held the above meeting, I went out and held another in the same neighborhood. In the meantime a small, frame school-house had been built. It was about a half mile from where the meeting was held the year before. In this school-house I held the quarterly meeting; and on Sabbath night that man and his wife were both happily converted to God, and they have been faithful and consistent members of the Church ever since. Brother C. C. White has held honorable positions in Church and State. In 1880 he was one of the lay delegates of the Nebraska Conference to the General Conference, and was an active and influential member of that body. He is alive to all the great interests of the Church. He has taken an active part in educational matters, and his deep interest is manifested by the thousands of dollars he has contributed for the promotion of Christian education in the State. I have often heard Sister White refer to the conversation we had during that meeting at her house on Oak Creek, and she has since said to me: "When you said, 'Get religion and you will have no desire to dance,' I did not believe a word you said. I did not believe you

would tell a willful falsehood, nor did I believe you would willfully misrepresent, but thought you were very greatly mistaken. From the very moment I was converted I have had no desire whatever to dance."
     If we are in the Church, and the desire to dance is still strong, it seems to me we have not got what Christ has for us. If Christ can not give us something better than the world gives; then it seems to me our religion does not amount to very much. Before I was converted I was passionately fond of dancing. It was the most fascinating amusement I ever engaged in. There is something about the dance and cards that is wonderfully bewitching; and yet as dearly as I loved cards, and as passionately fond of dancing as I was, the very moment I was converted the desire for these things left me, and--to the praise and glory of God I say it!--never once has it returned. When God, for Christ's sake, converted my soul, he gave me something infinitely better than the world ever gave.
     I once heard the late Bishop Clark relate the following: "A most gracious revival of religion was in progress in one of the charges in Cincinnati. Night after night a young lady of wealth and fashion was seen at the altar for prayer. She was a leader in the fashionable circles of society in the city. She manifested great

earnestness and was in deep mental distress, and yet could get no relief. I said to her: 'Are you willing to give up all for Christ?' 'Yes,' was the prompt reply. I knew she was passionately fond of dancing, and said: 'Are you willing to give up dancing?' She replied: 'I can be a Christian and dance.' I said: 'I am afraid you will not get religion until you are willing to give up the ballroom.' The next night after this conversation I knelt in front of her at the altar. She raised her head, and, smiling through her tears, said: 'I do n't want to dance now!' The desire for the dance left her, and she became as eminent a worker in the Church as she had previously been a leader in the fashionaable (sic) circles of the world."
     Let Christ come into the heart in his fullness, then old things pass away and all things become new. Our nature's rapid tide is turned back, and all our affections flow out after God.