epoch, which may be supplemented with the statement that in May, 1922, Pope Pius also objected to Great Britain having the permanent mandate over Palestine, which objection was seconded by the Catholic countries of Italy and France; but on July 24, 1922, came the announcement that the League of Nations council had awarded the permanent mandate to Great Britain, of which empire Palestine is now a part. The "sacred city" is taken.

This is episode three.

The interesting and informing thoughts "between the lines", as the world's affairs go in epochs, have a vital basis in the further fact that nearly nineteen centuries ago Jesus

of Nazareth said, "Jerusalem shall be trodden down of the Gentiles until the times of the Gentiles be fulfilled," and Jerusalem is no longer "trodden down" by the Gentile Turk or his co-agencies. Still further, the Mormon Prophet Joseph Smith as a Prophet sent of God, said in 1831 that within the generation (using the word in its meaning as a cycle of 100 years) of the revealing of the Gospel that brought the Mormon Church into existence "the times of the Gentiles shall be fulfilled." The fulfillment of the two predictions culminate as one, being from the same source, in "the spirit of prophecy" which is "the testimony of Jesus."

Now is the day of Israel.

Martha Alcit was bitter with the bitterness of an exile, with the bitterness of a maternal woman denied motherhood. Again she read her younger sister's letter telling of the joy that had lately come to the cozy little home in New England. As she read the letter she detected the note of compassion which she always found or imagined she found in the letters from "back home." Why had she left the easy comfort of wealth to come to this desert wilderness? Because she loved her husband, Joe Alcit and would have followed him anywhere he had chosen to lead. And his love still compensated for all she had to forego. Their tiny log hut was certainly bare enough and yet it was home, and no house however big and fine without Joe could have given hapiness to Martha. She realized this and tried to quell the hurt in spite of her effort to subdue it.

She gazed vacantly out of the narrow window and saw Peggy Salmon coming down the snowy road, carrying in her arms a bundle wrapped in an old gray blanket.

"Her new baby," thought, Martha, "as if four children weren't more than she could properly take care of now. Why couldn't this new little one have come to me?"

In came Peggy, stamping the snow from her feet. "Want to see the baby?"

Of course Martha did and Peggy unwrapped the tiny little fat creature, scarcely more than a month old, and drew up to the fire.

"Aren't you afraid to bring her out so soon, and in the snow, too? You ought to be careful of yourself, also."

"Oh, we're both strong. Aren't we, honey? A little snow won't hurt us," and Peggy drew the little thing toward the fire. What a crude little bundle it was, utterly lacking in all the fineness and daintiness with which Martha had once associated newly arived humanity. A faded blue outing flannel petticoat peeped beneath a dress of coarse cotton which had once been white, but was now a dingy gray which told of many improper washings. Not a bit of lace or embroidery relieved the unmistakable poverty of the attire. Martha imagined the snowy cobwebby textures that billowed about the little form of the newborn son of sister Edith's.

"See, I brought her in her best white dress. I made it over from an old piece of white stuff I saved for a long time. It's pretty nice, don't you think so?”

tha, and her eyes filmed. Yes, com"Yes, it's real nice," gasped Marpared to the colored gingham in which she had seen some of the little ones arrayed in this pioneer community, it was "nice." Even though she had lived in the settlement five years now, she still rebelled against the coarse makeshifts everywhere apparent about her.

Peggy noticed some faint lack of heartiness in the reply. There certainly was some secret distress in Martha's face, in spite of her light

attempt to hide it as she bent over the baby. She still held the letter in her hand from her sister, Edith.

"Had some bad news, Martha?" “Oh, no, just a surprise letter from my sister, Edith, to say she had a son. Such a surprise. Never gave me a hint, and wouldn't let anyone write for her. Wanted to tell me herself. Why her baby must be just the same age as yours." Martha bent over the child and fondled it with fresh interest. Though her attitude was all tenderness, the pain in her heart made her wish to thrust the child back in the mother's arms and send it awaywhere her own lack would not so poignantly confront her.

Peggy did not stay long, but before going she dropped a word about Christmas which gave Martha a start. With no children in the house, one is apt to forget the nearness of the great festival. She had always managed to send a Christmas box back to New England filled with dainty gifts made from a trousseau utterly unfitted to the exigencies and associations of her pioner life. Passing years had sadly depleted her store and now she wondered just what she could make fine enough and dainty enough to suit Edith's baby.

She opened her cedar chest, the ore luxurious article of furtniture in her little home. She had brought it with her, in spite of all oposition, filled with linens and finery.

Once again she unwrapped her wedding dress, a creation all sheer white daintiness. Finest of linen with most exquisite of Valenciennes lace, this was the gown she had chosen to wear on that summer five years ago, and here in the cedar chest it had rested ever since so carefully wrappd that now it merged as fresh and crisp as Silk or satin she might have worn, but the softness and fineness

new.

of washable fabric had always made the great appeal to her.

"Fine enough for the christening robe of a princess,' the modiste had said when she first fingered the dainty stuff. The words came back with startling clearness. Martha unwrapped the gown hastily, but carefully, and went back to the window. A few log cabins stood out in lonely isolation against a white treeless background. Sage brush pushed its grayness out of the white. In the distance icy mountains with purple shadows and outcroppings of bleak brown crags seemed to wall the little settlement in from all the cheer of the great busy world beyond.

What would Edith think of this barren valley-Edith who would never know, nor wish to know, the courage the uncomplaining unselfishness of pioner life, the upwelling of things of the spirit which more than equalled the lack of bodily luxuries. Martha was glad she had come with Joe: she had lived in experiencing the elemental as Edith would never live. But could Edith know all, she would bestow on her pioneer sister an unwelcome pity, a concern which Martha resented because of its lack of understanding the fundamentals of the situation. Edith should never know all and this year as usual Christmas gifts must bear no hint of the rigors of life.

She wondered if Edith would re

member the member the wedding dress. Of course not. Her mind was too open to new impressions to dwell on the past. The unwelcome words of the modiste refused to be quieted. At last Martha went back to the chest. There Joe found her when he came in for the evening meal.

"What, Martha, going to make more Christmas presents?"

Manlike, he had never grasped the

significance of the sacritices that went into the making of his wife's Christmas gifts, but always regarded the never failing resources of the cedar chest as a subject for good natured raillery.

Martha handed him the letter.

"Too bad," he exclaimed, "that there isn't a jewelry store about so that we could send the newborn child a golden gift."

"As if we could anyway?"

Joe did not notice the slight sar casm in his wife's voice but went on, "what are you going to make?"

"I don't know."

Martha guiltily slipped the dress back in its place and rose from her knees to prepare the simple meal.

"I won't do it, I won't do it, I won't give up my wedding dress," she murmured as she set the dishes on the table a trifle vindictively. "I won't give up everything."

The next morning she refused to go near the cedar chest, but went over to Peggy's. She wanted to see the baby that was the same age as Edith's. The baby was not dressed to receive company, and in a faded wrapper of outing flannel, it was as unattractive as any healthy baby can be. Martha tried to picture it in dainty mulls, and then the bareness and poverty of the house smote her.

The four other children, their clothes revealing makeovers in every line, were gathered in noisy group discussing important details concerning Santa Claus, his appearance and habits and appealing to their mother to settle mooted questions at irregular intervals. In spite of the animated happiness of the children, the scene was depressing. What would Edith think of this humble dwelling with its strangely clad children?

At home again, Martha opened the chest and drew forth the dress. Lay

ing it carefully on the table she studied the lines and trimming and was soon absorbed in planning a metamorphosis. No, she did not intend to cut it up. She was just seeing if it could be done.

Joe came in unobserved.
"What are you doing?"

It was too late to retreat. "I-I was just looking at my wedding dress."

He fingered it reverently. "It's like the life you left, isn't it, Martha?" He noticed her eyes welled with tears. "Are you sorry?"

"No, Joe."

He looked sceptical and to convince him, she committed herself before she realized it. "I was just thinking it might make another Christmas present."

"Your wedding dress for a Christmas present?"

"Wouldn't it make a lovely baby dress?"

He stared and then laughed with a laugh that hurt. "Sure it would. It's no use lying wrapped up in a box anyway, and you'll never wear it again."

"I would like to keep it, though." "Of course, you wouldn't be a woman, if you didn't." He noticed her hurt face. "Well, I'd keep it if I were you and wanted to."

"No, no, I think I'll make it into a dress," Then leaving herself a loophole, she added, "That is, if I can.

She knew she could and yet she had rather hoped it wouldn't be possible. The simple lines, the manner of its trimming made it a simple task for her skilful fingers. her skilful fingers. But she gathered it up and put it way. It was the last beautiful relic of her former life, it seemed like sending away a part of herself. She would decide tomorrow.

Several days passed and the dress

lay untouched in its chest. Then came another letter from Edith filled with rhapsodies of motherhood. A tone of pity ran through the letter. Martha would not be pitied. She would show Edith that there were luxuries to be had on the frontier. She would send the dress and Edith should wonder as she might that such things were obtainable in a desert settlement. She would go to Peggy's for a pattern of a baby's dress. She had noticed the severe simplicity of the little one's garments. With such simple outline she could embellish it as she liked.

Peggy was greatly interested and almost too inquisitively helpful. Martha did not intend that the little mother should know the details of the gift. She hurried home and before her resolve weakened she laid the dress on the table, and cut the first slash. Then laying her head on the table, she sobbed. She could go no further, so she put it away.

After the first pang, it was easier and soon she began to take a real joy in fashioning the little garment. With dainty stitches, she arranged the delicate laces. Yes, it should be a robe fit for a princess when she had finished. It should be simple, but beautiful. Peggy brought the baby and came to supervise the work, but when she saw its fascinating fineness she could do nothing but utter awed exclamations of delight.

"See, honey," she cried, holding up the unappreciative mite, "how would you like to wear a dress like that. Mother wouldn't know how to wash it. One rub on the board and it would

fall to pieces like a cobweb. Wouldn't you feel like an angel in a dress like that? Well, never mind, you're mother's little angel anyway."

Such talk sometimes irritated the

silent woman who put such an infinite number of tiny stitches into the little garment. Peggy, however, was oblivious to all but the growing beauty of the dress. Every day she came with her child to see how it was progressing. Several times Martha remonstrated for the weather was cold and she feared for the health of the mother and child. Then one day Peggy failed to appear. Martha put the last touches to the little robe and then wondered that Peggy was not there to se it. Yes, it was beau tiful. The rows of lace set in so exquisitely did not destroy a certain simplicity that Martha had striven to maintain. She must wrap it and mail it at once or it would not reach Edith for Christmas day, yet she wished Peggy might see it first. She would wait till tomorrow and then Joe should ride with it to the nearest postoffice. Somehow the thought of Peggy began to worry her. It had been damp and snowy the day before and Peggy's overshoes looked as if they were leaking. She had been so busy on the dress that she had not ed to remember that Peggy had not noticed at the time, but now she seemseemed quite her natural self. She would have time to run up and see whether to take the dress with her her before it got dark. She hesitated and then decided not to. She put it in the chest and was soon on her way to Peggy's.

The oldest child, pale and frightened, opened the door. Papa was not at home, he had gone away the night before, and mama and baby were sick. Martha found the mother and babe in bed together. Their faces were hot and flushed and their breathing difficult. The child had been neglected all day and was laying exposed and chilled in a pitiful condition while