almost across the car, while his body was so short that a child sitting beside him towered above him. But he was well dressed, and his disproportioned face and head sunk deep upon his shoulders. bespoke intelligence and education.

A heavily-built man entered the car and sat at the dwarf's left. He had removed his cigar as he came in, but it was still smoldering, and as he held it between his fingers a whiff of the odor was blown across the little man's face. The dwarf dropped the magazine he was reading, and glanced up startled. His eye fell upon the cigar which the newly-arrived passenger still held. Then he raised a thin, piping voice in an angry cry of protest. "Conductah! Conductah!"

The passengers glanced at him, but the conductor did not hear. "Conductah, conductah!" exclaimed the little man again with his voice raised in a shrill shriek of anger.

The conductor came back and stood before him. There was an expression of concern, almost deference in his face and attitude. "Yes, sir," he said.

"Conductah," squealed the little man, jerking his thumb at his big neighbor, "that man has a cigar. It offends me.

move him."

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The great size of the offender, the littleness and deformity of the dwarf, the querulousness of his voice, his important manner and imperious command combined to form an effect simply farcical. If the man had not been a dwarf everybody in the car would have laughed, but because of the feeling of sympathy and forbearance toward him on account of his misfortune, not a smile was visible. The passengers looked at the furious dwarf and the only expression on their faces was one of commiseration and sorrow. The man with the cigar had a right to look angry, speaking of it from a worldly standpoint, for no offense had been intended and his cigar had gone out. But he only looked uncomfortable. The big conductor stood towering above the little man in the attitude of a school-boy who expected to be caned.

“I—I can't put him out, sir," he said. "His cigar is o!' "I'll report you," piped the dwarf; "we'll see if the company's rules are to be broken this way; I'll—”

The big man with the cigar had moved to the opposite side of the car and the conductor was going out. Still nobody had smiled.

"Conductah, conductah!" squealed the dwarf again, and the conductor came back quickly.

"Yes, sir," he said.

"Give me your numbah; I shall report you for insolence."

By all the traditions of comedy this sally should have aroused roars of laughter, and it would with a man who was well and strong, but it didn't in this case. The man with the cigar looked more uncomfortable than before, and threw the offending object out of the window, as though to destroy every vestige of opportunity for trouble.

The conductor gave his number and bent his head humbly so that the dwarf could make sure of the figures. The little man jotted them down, and then buried himself once more in his reading.

Everybody looked relieved. The conductor withdrew quietly. The man whose cigar had caused the trouble followed him a minute later and furtively slipped his card into the conductor's hand. Not a man on that car showed the feelings which each of them must have felt. They saw the bitterness and scorn that filled the little creature and pardoned him for it as a part of his deformity. I do not wonder that a journalist looking on recalled the words of a great poet who, speaking of the age of chivalry, said: "In those days no knight of Arthur's noblest dealt in scorn. But if a man were halt, or blind, in him scorn was allowed, as part of his defect, and he was answered softly by the king and all at his table."

There can be no test so sure of our Christianity and of our citizenship in the kingdom of heaven as the fact that the spirit of Christ is so possessing our hearts that we show forth childhood's sincerity and tenderness and live with childhood's confidence and trust toward God.

During a war between the Scottish clans, MacGregor's son was made to exchange clothes with a peasant lad, in order to conceal his identity. Both boys were captured, however, and the question which puzzled the captors was, "Which is MacGregor's son?" The boys were brought to the palace and watched. The peasant lad showed no familiarity with the appurtenances of the palace, but betook himself to the servants' quarters where he felt at home. MacGregor's son, on the contrary, made use of the palace as though he belonged there, and so revealed his identity. So no outward clothing of profession, however brave it may be, will

stand against the conduct and spirit of a life. If our life is selfish, if it clings to the kitchen of greed and worldliness, if we are full of envy and jealousy and anger and the mean qualities of a low and vulgar nature, it matters not how much we wear the livery of the children of God, our spirit will belie us. But if we

have so yielded our hearts to Christ that the graces of the Spirit are our congenial atmosphere, then we shall take our place among God's children naturally, and there will be none to dispute our rights.

The kingdom of the child is the kingdom of the imagination. Children live in the imagination. It is no hardship for them to play with castles in the air. Christ appeals to our imagination; we are to see in every poor little child a brother or sister to the little Child that was cradled in the manger at Bethlehem, and all children are to be sacred to us because of that Child. We are to see in every inquisitive boy asking questions and troublesomely seeking the way to knowledge the Boy Jesus in the temple questioning the doctors of the law, and all boys are to be sacred to us because of that Boy. We are to see in every toilworn carpenter carrying home his tools at night after his day's work the Carpenter of Nazareth, and all workingmen are to be sacred to us because of that Carpenter. We are to see in every hungry, tempted man who is faint and ready to die Him who was in the wilderness with the wild beasts, for forty days without food, and was afterward an hungered; and all hungry, tempted men are to be sacred to us because of our hungry and tempted and fainting Lord. We are to see in every lonely, outcast, homeless man, whose heart aches, and whose path is dark, something of Him who said of Himself, "The foxes have holes, and the birds of the air have nests; but the Son of man hath not where to lay his head," and all lonely, broken-hearted men are to be sacred to us because of the lonely Christ. We are to see in every man whose burdens crush him down into agony until his cry for help is like a death-cry something of Him who in the Garden of Gethsemane sweat drops of blood, and cried out to heaven, "If it be possible, let this cup pass from me!" And all burdened and agonizing men, overloaded with the world's sorrows, are to be sacred to us because of him who bore that awful load on that night of agony.

This is the core of Christianity. On this Christmas occasion we shall find our Christ not with the multitudes of self-sufficient, prosperous ones; but we shall find him wherever tears blind the eyes, and burdens overload the shoulders, and hearts are ready to break. We may find him there and share with him, and learn to know him as our brother.

THE DREAM OF MRS. PILATE

"When he was set down on the judgment seat, his wife sent unto him, saying: Have thou nothing to do with that just man; for I have suffered many things this day in a dream because of him."-Matthew 27: 19.

The story of Mrs. Pilate is but briefly given in the Bible. It is all contained in this one verse. We do not know who she was before she married, nor what kind of a woman she was, except as is suggested to us by this incident. It is no real evidence of her goodness that God should have revealed to her in a dream the righteousness and goodness of Jesus. God made himself known to Pharaoh in a dream, as he did also to the worldly and wicked Nebuchadnezzar. And yet for aught we know this woman may have been a very devout and reverent woman, constantly alert to save her husband from falling into the errors and sins which his politic temperament and difficult and corrupt surroundings set as snares in his path. It may, however, have been simply her great love for her husband which caused her to send him this message. Her dream had evidently been a very unpleasant one. As she slumbered, in some way God set before her mind a vision of the truth. Possibly the tragedy of the cross, with all its agony and suffering, passed in review before her, and as she saw in her dream Christ nailed to the cruel tree, she was made to know that he was the Son of God, the true and the righteous One. The revelation of injustice, of cruelty and sin, had caused her indescribable suffering and pain, and when she awoke she gave a great sigh of relief, as she remembered that the horrid deed had not yet been accomplished, and that possibly she might have time to save her

husband from having a part in its wickedness. And so she sent a messenger at once to tell him to have nothing to do "with that just man," because she had suffered "many things in a dream" that day on his account. It is quite likely that this announcement was made publicly, that it might have its effect not only on the mind of Pilate, but upon all those who were prosecuting their false charges against Jesus. That it had its effect on Pilate is evident from the efforts which he made to persuade the Jews to give up their demand for the death of Christ, and his public statement of his belief in his innocence. But it all failed because of the deep prejudice and enmity on the part of the Jews, and the lack of backbone and moral purpose in Pilate.

The whole scene reveals the length to which envy will go. It ought to be a warning to any that are easily tempted to this sin. There is no more dangerous and insidious sin in the world than that of envy. Some of the worst deeds that have ever been committed in history have been caused by an envious imagination, which has become more and more inflamed, until it mastered the soul of its victim, and drove him or her onward to the foulest crimes. You can see a vivid illustration of it in the case of Saul's long pursuit of David. Why was it that Saul hunted David like a wild beast, driving him back into the caves of the mountains, and filling the land with strife and unrest? David, the beautiful young hero; David, of the merry heart, who had often driven away Saul's melancholy by the sweet music of his flute; David, the young shepherd hero, who had not only slain the lion and the bear in defence of his flock, but in Saul's great emergency had thrown himself into the breach and had slain the giant of Gath. Was it because David had lost the spirit of patriotism, and had become mean and treacherous? Ah, no; David was more beautiful, more nobleand splendid, than ever. It was because he was too popular with the people to please Saul. His heroism was too apparent, and his name too ready on every one's lip. It was because the women were singing, "Saul hath slain his thousands, and David his ten thousands." It was the envy which Saul felt in his heart toward the magnificent young hero that made him pursue him to take away his life. So, in this case, Pilate was not at all confused about Jesus. He was a keen-brained judge and knew that the case had been trumped up because of their envy of Christ. They did not want Christ put to death because he was so bad, but because he was