the consolation of gods as well as of men, he said a sublime thing,
for if we believe that God made and loved us, may we not sympathise
with Him for our blindness and hopelessness, for all the sad sense
of injustice and perplexity that we feel as we stumble on our way;
all the accusing cries, all the despairing groans? Do not such
things wound the heart of God? And if a man can be brave and
patient, and trust Him utterly, and bid others trust Him, is He not
thereby consoled?

In these dark months, in which I have suffered much, there rises at
times in my heart a strong intuition that it is not for nothing
that I suffer. I cannot divine whom it is to benefit, or how it is
to benefit any one. One thing indeed saddens me, and that is to
reflect that I have often allowed the record of old sadnesses to
heighten my own sense of luxurious tranquillity and security. Not
so will I err again. I will rather believe that a mighty price is
being paid for a mightier joy, that we are not astray in the
wilderness out of the way, but that we are rather a great and
loving company, guided onward to some far-off city of God, with
infinite tenderness, and a love so great that we cannot even
comprehend its depth and its intensity.

I sit, as I write, in my quiet room, the fragrant evening air
floating in, surrounded by all the beloved familiar things that
have made my life sweet, easy, and delightful--books and pictures,
that have brought me so many messages of beauty. I hear the voice
of Maud overhead--she is telling the children a story, and I hear
their voices break out every now and then into eager questions. Yet
in the midst of all this peace and sweetness, I walk in loneliness
and gloom, hardly daring, so faithless and despairing I am, to let