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ture, took a paper from his breast-pocket, and laid it upon the Bible.

“Ye kin read, Pa’son," he said, “ye kin read the warrant fur yer arrest.”

The deputy laughed a trifle insolently. He turned, swinging his hat - he had done the sacred edifice the reverence of removing it - and surveyed the wide-eyed, wide-mouthed people, leaning forward, standing up, huddled together, as if he had some speculation as to the effect upon them of these unprecedented proceedings. Kelsey could read nothing. His strong head was in a whirl; he caught at the table, or he might have fallen. The amazement of it, the shame of it!

“Who does this?” he exclaimed, in sudden realization of the situation. Already self-convicted of the blasphemy of infidelity, he stood in his pulpit in the infinitely ignoble guise of a culprit before the law.

Those fine immaterial issues of faith and unfaith, where were they? The torturing fear of futurity, and of a personal devil and a material hell, how impotent! His honest name — never a man had borne it that had suffered this shame; the precious dignity of freedom was riven from him; the calm securities of his self-respect were shaken forever. He could never forget the degradation of the sheriff's touch, from which he shrank with so abrupt a gesture that the officer grasped his pistol, and every nerve was on the alert. Kelsey was animated at this moment by a pulse as essentially mundane as if he had seen no visions and dreamed no dreams. He had not known how he held himself, how he cherished those values, so familiar that he had forgotten to be thankful till their possession was a retrospection.

He sought to regain his self-control. He caught up the paper; it quivered in his trembling hands; he strove to read it. Rescue! I never rescued Rick Tyler!”

The words broke the long constraint. They were an elucidation, a flash of light. The congregation looked at him with changed eyes, and then looked at each other. Why did he deny? Were not the words of his prophecy still on the air? Had he not confessed himself an evildoer, forsaken of God, and bereft of grace? His prophecy


was matched by the details of his experience. Had he done no wrong he could have foreseen no vengeance.

“Rick Tyler ain't wuth it,” said one old man to another, as he spat on the floor.

The widow of Joel Byers, the murdered man, fell into hysterical screaming at Rick Tyler's name, and was presently borne out by her friends and lifted into one of the wagons.

“It air jes' ez well that the sher'ff takes Pa’son Kelsey, arter that thar confession o' his'n,” said one of the dark-browed men, helping to yoke the

We couldn't hev kep' him in the church arter sech words ez his'n, an' church discipline ain't a goin' ter cast out no sech devil ez he air possessed by."

Brother Jake Tobin, too, appreciated that the arrest of the preacher in his pulpit was a solution of a difficult question. It was manifestly easier for the majority of the State of Tennessee to deal with him than for the little church on the Big Smoky.

“Yer sins hev surely fund ye out, Brother Kelsey," he began, with the aid of having washed his hands of all responsibility. “God would never hev fursook ye ef ye hedn't fursook the good cause furst. Ye air ter be cast down — ye who hev stood high.”

There was a momentary silence.

“Will ye come?" said the sheriff, smiling fixedly, "or had ye ruther be fetched ? "

The deputy had a pair of handcuffs dangling officiously. They rattled in rude contrast with the accustomed sounds of the place.

Kelsey hesitated. Then, after a fierce internal struggle, he submitted meekly, and was led out from among them.-The Prophet of the Great Smoky Mountains.

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URGER, HENRI, a French novelist; born at

Paris, March 24, 1822; died there, January

28, 1861. His father placed him in the office of a notary, but he soon obtained employment as secretary to Count Leo Tolstos, and gave himself up to the pursuit of literature. For about ten years he was comparatively unknown; and is supposed to have been himself plunged into the life of dissipation which he has pictured in his Scènes de la Vie de Bohème (1848). This work vividly describes the life of the Quartier Latin, the “bohemia” of Paris. Murger was the painter par excellence of this region and its gay and wretched life; its corrupt young blood is in all his novels; in Claude et Marianne (1851); in Scènes de la Vie de Jeunesse (1851); in Le Dernier Rendezvous (1852); in Le Pays Latin (1852); in Adeline Protat (1853); and in Les Buveurs d'Eau (1854). His poems bear the collective title Les Nuits d'Hiver. Murger died in an insane asylum.


Marcel had been working for the last five or six years at that famous picture, which he stated was to represent the passage of the Red Sea; and for the last five or six years this masterpiece of color had been obstinately rejected by the jury. Indeed, what with going backward and forward between the artist's studio and the museum, the museum and the artist's studio, the picture knew its way so well that, had it been put on castors, it could easily have made its way to the Louvre. Marcel, who had ten times altered and retouched this canvas from top to bottom, attributed to personal enmity on the part of the members of the jury the ostracism which annually turned it away from the Salon Carré; and in abandoned

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