Unless you are prepared to work like a slave at his galley, for the toss-up chance of a freedom which may be denied him when his work is done, do not write.  There are some pleasant things about this way of spending a lifetime, but there are no easy ones.

There are privileges in it, but there are heart-ache, mortification, discouragement, and an eternal doubt.

Had one not better have made bread or picture-frames, run a motor, or invented a bicycle tire?

Time alone—­perhaps one might say, eternity—­can answer.

* * * * *

[Footnote 5:  “A sin once committed, always deserves punishment; and, as long as strict Justice is administered, the sin must be punished.  Unless there be an Atonement, strict Justice must be administered; that is, Sin must be punished forever; but, on the ground of the Atonement, Grace may be administered, instead of Justice, and then the sinner may be pardoned.”]

[Illustration:  ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON AT THE AGE OF FOURTEEN.

From a photograph by Fradelle & Young, London.]

LOST YOUTH.

BY R.L.  STEVENSON.

  Sing me a song of a lad that is gone,
    Say, could that lad be I? 
  Merry of soul he sailed on a day
    Over the sea to Skye.

  Mull was astern, Egg on the port,
    Rum on the starboard bow;
  Glory of youth glowed in his soul: 
    Where is that glory now?

  Sing me a song of a lad that is gone,
    Say, could that lad be I? 
  Merry of soul he sailed on a day
    Over the sea to Skye.

  Give me again all that was there,
    Give me the sun that shone! 
  Give me the eyes, give me soul,
    Give me the lad that’s gone!

  Sing me a song of a lad that is gone,
    Say, could that lad be I? 
  Merry of soul he sailed on a day
    Over the sea to Skye.

  Billows and breeze, islands and seas,
    Mountains of rain and sun,
  All that was good, all that was fair,
    All that was me is gone.

Originally published in the “Pall Mall Gazette.”

THE DIVIDED HOUSE

BY JULIA D. WHITING,

Author of “The Story of Myra,” “Brother Sesostris,” “A special
Providence,” and other stories.

When Selucius Huxter had arrived at his last illness, he proved himself more than ever in his life troublesome and wearing.  Having a suspicion that his condition was worse than his doctor or children allowed, he gave them no peace until he had extracted an admission that such was the case.  Left alone with the doctor at his request, he reproached him.

“Ye might as well told me before as let me lay here thinkin’ and stewin’ about it.  I’ve lost a sight of strength tryin’ to git the truth from ye, and there wa’n’t no need.  Wall—­I suppose I ain’t reely dyin’ naow, while I’m a-talkin’, be I?”