As a grandfather Mr. Moody seemed to experience special joy, and to enter into sweetest and happiest relations with the little ones who laid hold of his heart. Irene Moody, born on August 20, 1895, and Emma Moody Fitt, born on December 16th of the same year, were the oldest grandchildren who claimed his love.

"Do you know I have a granddaughter? I am taking a present over to her," he shouted from his buggy to a friend on the natal day of his oldest grandchild, as he pointed to a basket of doughnuts. He was happy as a schoolboy on a holiday, and told the news to everybody he met. Later, that day, he made

a second trip to Mount Hermon to see the baby, that time bringing over an immense cauliflower, the best his garden had produced.

This same playful nature was shown in his first letter to little Emma Fitt on January 7, 1896, when she was three weeks old:

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This is my first letter to my dear little grandchild. I wanted to get a letter to you before you got your first tooth. Hurry up and get them all before the hot weather comes on, for I will get you some candy and you will want teeth to eat it. I want you to hurry up and grow so I can come early mornings and take you out riding when your mother and father are fast asleep. We will slip over the river to see Irene, and have some good times. Your mother is so proud of you, and your nurse is so fussy. Only think, Emma, what your mother said the other day--I, your grandfather, could not kiss you on your lips! Did you ever hear anything like that? But I got a kiss on your lips all the same, and I will get a good many more when I get home."

"I have just heard," he wrote a few months later, "that the milk you get at my house does not agree with you. But I think the fault is not with the milk but with the cooks. You know, or you should be old enough to know, that when you cook milk and put it in a bottle and put a black rubber nipple on it -well, you will be disgusted when you get a little older and know how your parents have treated you! You must not blame my old cow, for she is as good as she can be. I do not want to turn you against your parents, but if they do not treat you right, slip down to my house and get some doughnuts and ice cream."

In another letter to the same grandchild he wrote:

"In six days you will be one year old, and your grandmother will make you cake and have it all frosted over with white sugar, and they will put one tiny little candle in it..

"I am going to steal up to your house next summer and take you out riding before your parents get up. Only think, some fine June morning we can go up Lovers' Retreat. The birds will sing you a beautiful song. What times we will have together! I get real homesick thinking about it.

"And now, my dear Emma, I am praying for you that the Lord will watch over you day and night and keep you from all harm. You will never know how much your grandfather loves you. I shall be glad to get you into my arms again."-Will R. Moody.

How would it do for us to say to-day what we intend to say in our last illness? Honor bright! are you not saving up seve al fine, generous, pathetic little speeches to be made on your death-bed-all the scenery set, full company on the stage, grand final tableau? Ten chances to one you'll forget them then, or have a rattling in your throat that will shake them out of shape. Forth with them now, like men!" My dear boy, you have been the light and comfort of my life;" "My dear girl, without you I would have been nothing in this world."

IN CHURCH

"Did the doctor read or preach to-day?" inquired the good man of the house, who had stayed at home, of his wife, who had gone to church.

"He read his sermon," was the reply. "I like Doctor much better when he has no manuscript with him, but I suppose on such a very warm Sabbath it was easier for him to have his ideas right there on the paper."

"For my part," said Aunt Isabel, "I don't see what difference it makes to the congregation which mode their pastor prefers. There is an appearance of spontaneity about an extempore discourse, but the probability is that it has been prepared as carefully beforehand as the other, and there is always the danger, if the speaker has only made out his framework, and left his filling in to the inspiration of the occasion, that he will become too diffuse. His illustrations will throng on him as he looks into the faces before him in the pews, and he will very likely wander off on a tack that he did not intend. The written sermon is a strong tower. There it is; the man knows just how long he will be in reading it. If he reads effectively, it goes to the hearers quite as well as the speech which seems more informal."

"The truth is, my dear Isabel," said her brother, "that you go to church to be instructed, and so you don't care about the manner as much as about the matter. Now I am a business man and I have great trouble in keeping my attention fixed in church. I am always worrying over next week, and unless the minister gets hold of me, hammer and tongs, I'm somewhere else, though my visible shape is at the head of my accustomed seat."

"It was a good plan they used to have," said the mother, "that of asking each child for the text, and for some thought from the sermon, after the family came home. By that means the young people were trained to listen, a thing which is very necessary in all education, religious as well as secular."

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"If the children only went to church as they used to, it would be a great thing for the twentieth century men and women," said Aunt Isabel. One sees so few golden heads in church.

"I think no sight is prettier than a pew full of boys and girls seated with their parents, and if the very little ones grow sleepy, their mother's lap is a good place for a nap. I used to keep a picture book in the pew for my little flock, and a pad and pencil, and the smallest ones amused themselves quietly, disturbing nobody, and by always going with me they grew into a habit of church-going which they never lost after they had come to what father called years of understanding."

A CHURCH-GOING FAWN

(A Story for the Children.)

In the western part of New York, many years ago, before that part of the country was as thickly settled as now, my father lived in a little square house just on the border of the woods. People used to hunt a great deal in those woods.

One day when my father was hunting the deer, he suddenly came upon a little fawn asleep. He went towards it very softly, and succeeded in getting hold of the little fellow before he had time to escape. He carried it home in his arms, and, strange as it may seem, the fawn did not appear much alarmed; and after a few days of petting and care, he was as much at home and seemed as happy in my father's house as he could have been in the woods.

He was of a beautiful fawn color, with a white spot on his breast, and my father used to say he wore white stockings. He had a most affectionate, loving nature, and was devoted to my father, following him wherever he went. It seemed strange that he should care so much more for his master than for any one else, for my mother took almost the entire care of him, and was the one who always fed him. But, notwithstanding, neither she nor any one else could ever call him away from my father. He would play with my mother in the garden, and run after her from room to room if his master was away; but as soon as he appeared, the fawn seemed to consider it his duty to remain near him, and he would only leave my father long enough to get his supper and at

once return.

Sunday mornings the fawn was always shut up at church time, for fear he might follow his master. Generally he appeared quite satisfied with the society of the family; but once in a while he would seem to remember that his own family lived in the woods, and would evidently feel a desire to visit them. So he would spend sometimes the whole day in the wood, but always came home before my father did. Father bought him a pretty collar, with a small silver bell attached to it, so you could hear the little fellow long before you could see him. One Sunday morning, before going to church, my father, as usual, called the fawn, to shut him up. But the little fellow was nowhere to be found, and though my father went some distance down the road and listened, he could not hear the bell. So he decided the fawn must be visiting his fawn friends, though this was the first Sunday he had left his master to go off anywhere. The family went to church, however, without giving the fawn another thought. It being a very warm day, the church doors were all fastened wide open. In the middle of a long and rather dull sermon, my father was aroused by the sound, in the dim distance, of the little silver bell.

Nearer and nearer it came, and soon the congregation heard it, and still nearer it came. To the church steps-to the door-and finally the tinkling of the little bell sounded up the broad aisle. The pews in those days were made