“No, not if that ‘fun’ took even birds away from their young, and helpless creatures were shot for the mere pleasure of shooting. The Princess of Wales, thanks to her womanly heart, has helped to put an end to pigeon-shooting for sport, and balls are found to answer the purpose.” “This is getting personal. I fear you will not enjoy having me lead our meetings and asking sinners to become converted.” “You are quite right, Mr. Graham. Some persons may not feel as I do, but for myself it greatly lessens the force of your words or prayers. I have spoken plainly because I believe your killing for sport has a bad influence over others. To me it does not seem consistent with your profession of kindness and love to all of God’s creatures. I hope you are not offended.” “Oh, no, far from it! You have set me thinking. It has been thoughtlessness on my part, for as a leader in Christian things I want to do what is right.” LOVE’S CHRISTMAS GIFT. “I THINK George Thomas is fond of Edith, for he comes to the house often, and always gives her a delicate deference which shows his appreciation of woman.” “Yes,” said Mr. Sinclair in reply to his wife, “Thomas is a good fellow, a hard worker, economical, and worthy of any girl, though of course he isn’t rich. That doesn’t matter, however, for I have enough for Edith. I’ve often wondered why he didn’t offer himself.” “I can’t imagine,” replied his wife, “except that he does not earn enough to support Edith in the way she has been accustomed to live. Young men are unduly sensitive about that, when often the young woman would value a true affection more than a fine house and surroundings. I am sure Edith is fond of him, for although she says nothing her face and manner show it.” “I don’t see how we can help matters, wife. Probably time will settle it.” But time did not settle it, for Edith Sinclair, for some unexplained reason, was growing pale and listless. Something was wearing her nerves, and at last she was really ill. Naturally frail, and loving one to whom she could not make known her feelings, the repression, uncertainty, and perhaps surprise that no word was spoken finally culminated in her illness. A physician was called, a woman who had long been the friend of the family; she divined some trouble that was not apparent to the world. One morning when she came, taking Edith’s hand she said, “Dear, I think something is worrying you. Would you mind telling me so that I can help you, perhaps?” “There is nothing to be done, doctor,” said the girl sadly, as tears came into her large, dark eyes. “I have everything in this beautiful home, but I don’t care for it.” “But what would make you happy—to go away for a time and have change of air and scenery?” “No, I would rather stay here. I am too tired to go away.” “Edith, I must tell you what I think is the truth. You love Mr. Thomas, and are unwilling that he or anybody should know it.” “I admire him very much,” said the girl slowly.