since. Song after song
followed, and I soon had other voices to help me. When the song
service ended, an old man came to me, put out his hand, and said, "Sir,
I owe you thanks and a confession."

"Thanks for what?"

"Thanks for rebuking that blasphemer."

"Don't thank me for that, but give thanks to my Master. I try to stand
up for Him wherever I am. What about the confession?"

"I am in my eighty-third year. I have been a preacher of the Gospel
for over sixty years. When I heard that man swearing so, I wanted to
rebuke him. I rose from my seat two or three times, to do so, but my
courage failed. I have not much longer to live, but never again will I
refuse to show my colors anywhere."

HER DANGER SIGNAL.

BY EMMA C. HEWITT.

She did--I am sorry to record it, but she did--Letty Bascombe salted
her pie-crust with a great, big tear.

Not that she had none of the other salt, nor that she intended to do
it, but, all of a sudden, a big tear, oh, as big as the end of your
thumb, if you are a little, little girl, ran zigzag across her cheek
down to her chin, and, before she could wipe it off, a sudden, sharp
sob took her unawares and, plump, right into the pastry, went this big
fat tear. Of course, if you are even a little girl you must know that
it is as useless to hunt for tears in pie-crust as it is to "hunt for a
needle in a hay-stack." So Letty did not even try to recover her lost
property. But it had one good effect, it made her laugh, and, between
you and me (I tell this to you as a secret), Letty, like every other
girl, little or big, fat or thin, was much pleasanter to look upon when
she smiled than when she cried. But she didn't smile for that. Oh,
dear, no. She smiled because she couldn't help it. She was a
good-natured, sweet-tempered little puss, most times, and possessed of
a very sunny disposition. "Why did she salt her pie-crust with tears,
then?" I hear you ask. Ah, "Why?" And wait till I tell you. The most
curious part of it all was that it was a Thanksgiving crust. There,
now. The worst is out. A common, every-day, week-a-day pie, or even a
Sunday pie, would be bad enough, but a Thanksgiving pie of all things.
Why, everybody is happy at Thanksgiving.

Well, not quite everybody, it seems, because if that was so Letty
wouldn't be crying.

Now let me tell you why poor Letty Bascombe, with her sunny temper,
cried on this day while she was making pies.

You see, she was