DAUGHTERS of ZION Truer Parenthood, Better Children, Happier Homes, Purer Society. CALLIE B. STEBBINS, Editor. "A partnership with God is motherhood; What strength, what purty, what self-control, ADVISORY BOARD.-Mrs. B. C. Smith, president, 214 South Spring_street, Independence, Missouri; Mrs. H. A. Stebbins, vice-president, Lamoni, Iowa; Mrs. D. J. Krahl, secretary, 724 South Crysler street, Independence, Missouri; Mrs. F. M. Smith, 630 South Crysler street, Independence, Missouri; Mrs. L. L. Resseguie, Lamoni, Iowa. Treasurer, Mrs. M. E. Hulmes, 909 Maple avenue, Independence, Missouri. Common Days. One of the chief dangers of life is trusting occasions. We think that conspicuous events, striking experiences, exalted moments have most to do with our character and capacity. We are wrong. Common days, monotonous hours, wearisome paths, plain old tools and everyday clothes tell the real story. Good habits are not made on birthdays, nor Christian character at the New Year. The vision may dawn, the dream may waken, the heart may leap with some new inspiration on the mountain top, but the test, the triumph, is at the foot of the mountain; on the level plain. The workshop of character is everyday life. The uneventful and commonplace hour is where the battle is won or lost. Thank God for a new truth, a beautiful idea, a glowing experience; but remember that unless we bring it down to the ground and teach it to walk with feet, work with hands, and stand the strain of daily life, we have worse than lost it; we have been hurt by it. A new light in our heart makes an occasion; but an occasion is an opportunity, not for building a tabernacle and looking back to a blessed memory, but for shedding the new light on the old path, and doing old duties with new inspiration. The uncommon life is the child of the common day, lived in an uncommon way.—M. D. Babcock. Her Mother's Friend. "A ticket to Lake City, please." In spite of herself there was a quaver in Janet's voice. She braced herself for a suspicious glance. from the ticket agent, trying hard to look as if the journey were the most ordinary of everyday excursions. Yet it took away her breath when the man pushed the significant bit of cardboard in her direction without so much as raising his eyes. It was surprising to realize that the thing which meant so much to her was a matter of complete indifference to others. She took a seat in the waiting-room of the station, and sighed when a glance at the clock told her that she had half an hour to wait. Janet knew that it would be a long half hour. All the doubt and uncertainty with which she had contended for so many weeks, rose up to do battle with her determination. Even the ticket in her hand was not enough to quiet them. Till she was fairly on the train, she could not feel that she had taken an irrevocable step. "I wonder-I beg your pardon, but isn't this Ellen Rice's daughter?" Janet started guiltily, blushed deeply, looked at the floor as though meditating flight, and then by an effort regained her self-possession. The little, plump, smiling woman whose head hardly reached above Janet's shoulder was certainly not a formidable object. And her question, too, unexpected though it might be, was not without interest. "Ellen Rice," Janet repeated uncertainly. "Why, yes; that was my mother's name before she was married." The little lady in the gray traveling dress smiled up at Janet, and then suddenly the tears blurred her vision. "I knew it must be," she exclaimed. "For a moment when I looked at you, I was ready to believe that I was just sixteen and going back to the old Fairview Academy after vacation. You have your mother's face, my dear. You couldn't have anything better unless it were her sweet disposition." She sat down beside Janet, who realized pleasantly that the half hour would not be long, after all. Her mother was only a vaguely sweet memory in her life. She had a faint recollection of a transparent, oval face, of a fragile hand whose touch was the tenderest she had ever known, and that was all her sixteen years had known of mothering. Her heart warmed toward this stranger who had loved her mother when she was a girl. "I've been grumbling inwardly," the little gray lady went on brightly, "over having to wait here for the southbound train, but now I'm delighted, for it gives me a chance to get acquainted with you. I remember that after your mother's death you made your home with one of your mother's sisters. Are you still with her?" "I have lived with Aunt Emily since mamma died until now." It was not exactly what Janet had meant to say. It suggested the very subject she was anxious to avoid. The little lady turned her face, full of interest. "Till now? You mean that you are expecting to make a change soon?" "Yes." Somehow there was no possibility of evasion or falsehood in the presence of that simple friendliness. The little gray lady looked vaguely troubled over the noncommital monosyllable. "Are you going away to school?" she persisted, with something in her manner that forbade the idea of intrusion. "No, I'm not going away to school. I'm going away from home to take care of myself-somehow. Aunt Emily doesn't know it." Janet's voice was hard. Her face had changed. The little gray lady wondered a moment how she could have thought her the image of the girl she had known and loved in her school days. But she kept back the dismayed exclamation on her lips and laid a friendly hand on Janet's arm. "Suppose you tell me about it," she said. Then the flood gates were open. It was not a new story that poor Janet told. The little gray lady had heard it all before. A girl missing something in her home life, resenting its restraints, confident that out in the big world she would find the sympathy and the happiness she craved. "I don't believe Aunt Emily ever was young," cried Janet. "She can't understand why I shouldn't enjoy just the same things she does, and be perfectly happy to have every day just like the one before it. After I get a good position and get settled, I'll write her, and I'll visit her sometimes in my vacations, but I've got to live my own life and I'm going to begin now." A roar on the tracks outside interrupted Janet. "It's your train," she said to her new acquaintance, and she found herself sighing. It had been easy to open her heart to the little lady in gray, and in her tumultuous confidence there had been relief. Her companion sat quite still, and Janet repeated her remark, thinking she could not have understood. "It's your train; you must be quick!" "There are other trains," said the little lady cheerfully. "I'd rather stay and talk to you a while about your mother." They were not vague recollections that the little lady had to draw upon. The personality of the bright, sweet young girl instinctively loyal to all that was pure and good, was as vivid in her memory as if they had parted but yesterday. As the seconds ticked away she told a story of their school days. She had become involved in a piece of girlish imprudence, drawn on step by step, without realizing how far she was departing from the path of safety, and it was Janet's mother who had come to the rescue, and opened her eyes to her danger. "She persuaded me to make a full confession to Miss Huntley, our principal," said the little lady in gray. "And she went with me while I did it, or I think my courage would have failed. It was a turning point in my life, dear, and your mother was my good angel. I have often thought how different my future would have been if she had left me to follow my own course.' It lacked but five minutes of the half hour. Janet could hear the beating of her own heart. "Oh, my dear!" said the little gray lady brokenly, "I wish she were here in my place. I wish she could point out to you as I can not, the dangers that surround a young, inexperienced girl going out to 'live her own life.' I wish she could tell you how much the protection of home means to you just now." A tear ran down her cheek. "The thought of your mother has been a blessing and an inspiration to me for so many years that it seems hard if I can not help her daughter when she needs help." The train whistled in the distance. Janet started nervously, made a movement as if to rise, and sank back into her seat. Then she took the railway ticket from her purse and tore it slowly into bits. She was very pale as she faced the little lady in gray. "If you loved my mother so much," said Janet slowly, "that you are willing to miss your train to persuade me to do as she would have wanted me to, it would be a pity if I wasn't ready to make some sacrifice myself." Her lips trembled. "I think," she said, "that mother would wish me to go back." Then she leaned eagerly toward her new acquaintance. "Please tell me all you can remember about her." It was two hours before another train went south, and the little lady in gray filled the moments full. Never before had Janet felt so near to the mother who had died when little more than a child. Yet young as she was, she molded other lives for good and left behind her an influence which the years could not change nor destroy. Janet drew her breath sharply. She could not fail to be proud of her heritage, but it struck her for the first time that a responsibility went with it. It was almost dark when she reached home. A stooping figure in black stood in the doorway, and Janet wondered why she had never noticed before something appealing in its attitude. As she climbed the steps, she heard an unmistakable sigh of relief. "You're late to-night, child. I was getting anxious about you. The dew is falling and your shirtwaist is so thin." Aunt Emily passed a mistrustful hand over her sleeve. "Don't you think you had better change?" "I don't think it is necessary, Aunt Emily." Somehow she did not find the officious anxiety irksome to-night. One might come to worse things than such fond care. "But you haven't told me why you were so late," persisted Aunt Emily, following her indoors. "I looked for you at half past four. Nothing wrong is there, Janet?" "Nothing a bit wrong, Aunt Emily," Janet assured her, a hint of something in her voice which Aunt Emily could not understand. "I have had a beautiful afternoon talking with an old friend of my mother's."-The Girls' Companion. A S THERE have been many inquiries concerning this work, a few lines may not be amiss. The members of the Religio have accumulated a vast amount of knowledge saving truth. The unfairness of receiving any good thing and not imparting to others is obvious. If it is blessed to receive the truth, it is also blessed to help others. to receive it. As a religious society have we in the past been faithful in performing the command of the Lord to warn our neighbor? Are we now? Have there not been tons of our church papers wasted or destroyed? At the coming of the Son of Man will there be districts. which will be found slothful in spreading the light of heaven to their neighbors who are groping in darkness? The Master has decreed to send the gospel to every creature. INDIVIDUAL RESPONSIBILITY. Shall the work of distributing gospel literature be engaged in by you and me, or shall we expect the missionaries to accomplish their work and ours also? "It becometh every man who hath been warned to warn his neighbor."-Doctrine and Covenants 85: 22. Every man includes you and me. This command from the Lord can not be complied with in its fullest sense without the distribution of gospel literature. You may not be successful in getting your neighbor out to hear the word of the Lord, but you can supply him with literature which may be the means of attracting him to the gospel. Having done all you could, you stand approved before the Lord, "therefore (those who are warned) they are left without excuse." We have literature workers who mail tracts and papers to their relatives and friends, and distribute the literature of the church whenever an opportunity presents itself. I do not know your relatives; you do not know mine. You must labor with your acquaintances, I with mine. If you are too timid to give your church papers |