dence in the divine order of the inherent discipline of missionary life. It came to us with the grasp of a giant, but with the gentleness of a child with the breath of spring which penetrates all the upper interstices of mother earth, warming the roots, quickening the life into bud and bloom and fruit (a trinity of effect). So, you men of experience in the Church know that "the foundation of God standeth sure." He has worked in you to will and to do his good pleasure.

Your sons have felt the power of this discipline in the missionary field, alike with you. I have been with them, worked with them, watched over them, seen them become sensitive to the genial influences which come from above-seen them blossom, and fruit, and ripen in the attributes of ennobled life. Your generations after you will feel the same fruition, endure the same discipline, enjoy the same blessings, and work for the same ends. See to it, do, through preparation, that they are equipped with the qualities now needed in this enlarging field. There is room for all their energy, whether at home or abroad; room for men who shall be invincible— qualified to cope with infidelity, sectarian error, with shams secular and religious, with antiquated creeds, new vagaries of human ignorance, and the ravings of untruthful credulity.

The Church is a compact, divinely appointed, missionary lever; it alone will guarantee, through its messengers and the gospel, the regeneration of our race. Good as semi-inspirational effort and organization may be in their best and highest moods, they can only "pale their ineffectual fires" when the servants of the Lord, in a mission-propaganda, present the truth as it is in Jesus Christ.

Round up your shoulders, brethren, whether at home or abroad, subject yourselves to these silent activities of moral, mental, and spiritual forces, so shall you hasten the fall of superstition and error, as Dagon fell before the ark of God.

FISHERMAN KNUTE'S CHRISTMAS GIFT.

BY NEPHI ANDERSON, AUTHOR OF "ADDED UPON," "THE CASTLE BUILDER,” “MARCUS KING MORMON," "THE HIGHER LAW," ETC.

III. CHARITY.

And now the winter had come- the cold, dark, northern winter. For three weeks the sun had not been seen; and, save the tinge of gray in the southern sky, each day at noon, there were no indications that there was a sun to shine upon the earth. The mountains stood in huge whiteness against the dark, blue sky. The sea, warmed by the ocean currents, was yet free from the Frost Giant, and rolled in dark, green billows into the fjord and onto the shore. The stars were out continuously, except when the snow clouds filled the sky. The northern lights wavered and streamed across the heavens in ever-varying forms and colors.

From

It was midday, yet lamps were gleaming from every house in the village. The hum of voices came through opening doors, and now and then men were heard shouting to each other. the frozen lake, the merry laughter of small boys could be heard. Ingeborg lived yet alone in the house under the steep cliffs just out of the village-and she was alone today also, alone as she had been for many days and nights before-that was nothing new or uncommon. She was also preparing for the Christmas holidays, and the fishermen's return. Sometimes the winter fishing is much the best, and this year it had been uncommonly good. So, practically all the male population of the village had been out on the sea. They were coming home for the holidays, and the women and boys, and what few men remained were all busy.

After busying herself around and in the house for a time,

Ingeborg drew her spinning wheel closer to the tall, square stove in the corner, placed more peat cakes on the fire, and supplying herself with plenty of wool began to spin. The big wooden clock, with long weights, ticked off the time in rhythm to the hum of the wheel. The pile of carded woolen rolls grew smaller, while the spools of thread became full.

Ingeborg had not been to Bergen yet, and Knute would never take her there, that was certain. A dozen times, during the short period of their married life, it had seemed that he would cease drinking, and become a man; but each time he had failed, until now it appeared that she must give up in despair. The home was needing repairs, the furniture was scant. Ofttimes, of late-but Knute did not know it-the wife had gone hungry to bed.

The beautiful, soul-inspiring faith of the spring day when they were married, had long since departed. The hope that had buoyed her up, time and time again, had been crushed. All had gone— life, the living life, hope, ambition, trust, assurance-all were beyond her grasp, and only love remained. Love was yet with her, burning stronger, firmer, purer than ever within her heart.

Tomorrow would be Christmas Eve. The wheaten cakes had been baked, and the raisin bread was ready-the kind that Knute liked. The ale was brewed. There would be plenty to eat when he came home. He had sent her fifty crowns from Lofoten, and she had

laid in a good supply of food.

She worked at her wheel until late in the afternoon. Then she rested and took up her knitting. There were stockings for Knute, thick, heavy stockings for sea-work, and there were mittens also. She now finished the thumb end of a mitten, and then proceeded to ornament the wristband with a circle of blue silk which she brought from a box in a drawer. This pair must have been of special importance, because she held them up now and then to see the effect of her work.

The day passed, yet the men did not return. Neighbors came that evening and told her that the fishers would be home the next day.

The day before Christmas opened with a snow storm, with wind and piercing cold. Through the morning hours the storm raged, and there were poor prospects of a merry Christmas for the

fishermen. The dark was dense, and even the usual grayness at noon was not to be seen. In the afternoon the storm ceased, the wind subsided, and in a few hours the Aurora gleamed through the rifts in the clouds. Shortly afterwards most of the men came sailing into the harbor, but Knute was not with them. Ingeborg, with an unusually pale face, listened to the men's story.

Knute had stopped some distance up the fjord, to visit some friends, he had said, but none of the men was aware of anybody livat the place at this time of the year; but no amount of argument or remonstrance had availed with him. Stop he must, and stop he did! She need not worry, however, as he was able to take care of himself until morning, when he, no doubt, would come home.

So Knute didn't think enough of her to come home when the others did? she thought. But she would not judge him. Perhaps he was in a poor condition to come home. Yes! that was it. He did not wish to let her see him until he was sober and well over the effects of his sin. But-and the thought made her heart stand still for a moment-if he was in that condition, and had liquor with him, there would be danger. He might freeze to death. The

men had said there was no one living now at Stonypoint where he had stopped. Why hadn't his comrades used force and compelled him to come home? He would die out there alone. If he went on shore, and found no one, he might drink, and freeze, and die!

Ingeborg closed the door-she had been looking out into the darkness after the departing men. The storm-clouds yet passed hurriedly over the sky. She warmed her hands by the stove. She shivered, not wholly with cold.

Stonypoint was but a few miles away, overland. Why should her husband be left to perish in the cold? If someone had but stayed with him-if she were only with him, he would be all right, for when she was with him, he was always sane and just. It was Christmas Eve-she was comfortable at home, and he she couldn't bear the thought of it. She herself would go after him. Physical suffering would ease the suffering of the soul.

It would be better to go by water, perhaps, and get some one with her; but when she ran down to the boat house, she saw how impossible this was. The storm had driven floating ice into the fjord, and no small boat could make headway through it.

She sped back to the house, and with her lamp went up into the loft, coming down with a pair of long Norwegian ski, or snowshoes.

True, it had been some time since she had used them, but that would make little difference. She had often made long excursions on snow shoes, and this trip overland would not be hard.

Knute might come home while she was away. She would leave his supper on the table. It was Christmas eve, and it would not do for him to come home to a cheerless house.

She spread a white cloth on the table, and set it with her best chinaware. The slices of raisin-bread were many and large. She opened one of the doors in the stove and placed the coffee pot in a warm corner. She added more peat to the fire.

Then she sat down to think for a moment. Ah, yes, there were Knute's mittens-his Christmas present. If he came home while she was away, he must find them. Where should she place them? She had read of the American way of hanging up stockings on Christmas eve for the reception of presents, but that was usually done near larger open fireplaces in which wood and coal were burned-but, perhaps, by the stove would do-it was all play anyway--and Knute would be delighted-Knute always did like American ways.

So she drew a chair up to the stove, and hung the mittens with blue silk edging across the back. Then she pinned on them a paper which had written on it,

To KNUTE,

FROM INGEBORG.

A MERRY CHRISTMAS.

Then an extra skirt and
She saw that the foot-

Then she prepared for the journey by putting on heavy leggings, and a pair of socks over her shoes. jacket, and a warm hood were gotten out. fastenings on the ski were intact. When all was ready, she poured out a cup of coffee, and with it ate a piece of cake. She did this mechanically, as she did not feel at all hungry or faint; but there was a something in her blood, something that gave her courage and determination, but which did not give color to cheek or lip.

Before going she would read her chapter and say her prayers. It was now about bed time anyway-she had often in her lonely