resting-time will come afterwards. It is hard to be practical; theory is all very easy. In many things memory does seem like a curse; I often wish words and actions could be recalled, and thoughts blotted out, but there they remain, to cure us of our pride and to stir us up to be more circumspect in the future, and this surely is a blessing."

It will be said that there is nothing remarkable in this letter. It can hardly carry force or light to those who read it in cold blood, with more than half a century between them and the date of the letter. I give it not as a contribution to present-day thought, but as a record of the sweet and earnest spirit which this dear guardian friend of mine showed me in my youth. She was mentor and confidante. Always the note of higher things was struck in her letters: they came to me like angels' visits; they brought their appeal and their power of caution; they were a true ministry to me, all the more powerful because they came from one who to me was the embodiment of beautiful, pure, and God-loving womanhood. Her influence centralized for the moment my life, by drawing it nearer to its true centre, which is God. How much it meant in its steadying and uplifting power I can never tell; but it made all women sacred and worshipful in my eyes. Always the memory and the thought of her brought a consecration upon all things, and rough and coarse talk, and the doubtful tales which sometimes floated through university life, were hateful to me.

It may be that some will read youth's romance and nothing else in this little record of an early influence. I

do not dispute it if they will so read it; but as I look back, I feel that God uses all experiences of life to achieve some good, and that among these experiences the high worshipful affection which a growing lad may feel for a girl somewhat older than himself is no mean power to mould, to discipline, to prepare, and even to inspire his life. At any rate, though for more years than I care to recall my life has been sundered from that of my Beatrice, I look back with glad thankfulness to the time when her gentle and unselfish vigilance seemed to watch over my growing years. I know that she made womanhood sacred to me, and I think that the serious trend of my life owed much to the spiritual influence with which she filled the atmosphere of my early life. She, perhaps, has forgotten all this, perhaps never realized that she was exercising any influence at all, and perhaps she will never know how I bless God for all she

was to me.

Do not chide me that I set these thoughts down as I recall past days. We live in an age in which there seems a feverish desire to advertise our beneficence; we are restless till we know that our philanthropies have been duly chronicled and amply applauded; we are eager to see results, and to receive assurance that our influence is known, recognized and appreciated. Are we wise? Are we not brushing the bloom off goodness in making it public? Is there not a charm and a special virtue about the quiet influence of such as do not "strive, nor cry, nor let their voices be heard in the street." Is there not a lesson to be learned from Him who so often deprecated publicity, giving the caution, "See thou tell no man"?

As I believe that there is a special fragrance about the unrecorded influences of life, I have chronicled my own experience of such an influence. May it bring a message of hope and comfort to those who, perhaps, are depressed because they seem to have been sowing and have never been called to reap. The silent influences of life may be the most abiding, and those which have never found their way into print may be written in heaven and in the hearts of those who do not forget.

MY HOME AND HOME SORROW

THERE are sacred places in our memories as there are churches in our cities-places which none may enter save with reverence of heart. We uncover the head if we are Westerns, we take off our shoes if we are Easterns; the fashion is different, but the spirit is the same. We are filled with the spirit of reverence: the sense of the unseen is here. I ask no man to read this chapter who does not know what reverence means. Nay, reader, if your soul knows nothing of the awfulness of life's sweet and simple things, if you cannot see how beauty may dwell among foolish things, or cannot hear the sound of tears amid the laughter of life, then, I pray you, pass on and leave this chapter unread, for I think that, though I do not know you, I should feel some passing anguish of heart if a mocking spirit should possess you while you read.

Why write at all? some will ask; why write at all if things written about are sacred? Why expose your heart to mockery? Friend, you are right. I have asked myself the same question, and the answer is, I cannot tell you why-save that some influence which I cannot explain moves me to write. It seems as though the spirit of the past has a power over the present, and while the present says, "It is done with-leave it; write nothing for fear of

to me,

writing unwisely or unworthily," another spirit steals nearer and says, "Write; it is not fitting that these things should be forgotten; they were once your life; they formed your heart, your mind, your destiny. The sweet service which wrought so patiently in those earlier years ought not to be forgotten. Your heart responds to me when I speak. There are, moreover, those alive and at your side to-day who will love and cherish the memories youand you only-can record. Do not fear the world. Men and women who have loved and lost will understand you. In the temple of sorrow all are ready to worship: into it there entereth nothing that can defile." So I write of things

most sacred.

The scene is an English vicarage. The house, built of yellowish stone, is solid and square, and stands with a quiet determination upon ground which falls to the southward and gives a pleasant view of the Chiltern Hills. The door of the house looks to the east; and above the trees and shrubs which surround the circular carriage-drive, the church spire can be seen like a protecting sentinel of the village. Along the south front of the house there is a gravel path flanked by a croquet ground which runs beyond the limits of the house into the kitchen garden on the west. Up and down this path I walked with my brother-in-law, William Peers, and his bride. The sun is shining, and a pleasant reminiscence of summer and warmth is in the air; the church-bells, harsh and jubilant, are clanging with earnest endeavour to tell the countryside how glad they are. It is my wedding day. The village folk, who love the bride well for her kindly visits and cheery sympathy, have erected