ictures of martyrs and holy saints and of the sweet
Christ-face with the crown of thorns. Men called his pictures only
daubs.

"One night the poor monk mused, 'Could I but render
Honor to Christ as other painters do--
Were but my skill as great as is the tender
Love that inspires me when his cross I view.'

"'But no, 'tis vain I toil and strive in sorrow;
What man so scorns still less can _He_ admire;
My life's work is all valueless; to-morrow
I'll cast my ill-wrought pictures in the fire.'

"He raised his eyes within his cell--O wonder!
There stood a Visitor; thorn-crowned was He;
And a sweet voice the silence rent asunder:
'I scorn no work that's done for love of me.'

"And round the walls the paintings shone resplendent
With lights and colors to this world unknown,
A perfect beauty and a hue transcendent,
That never yet on mortal canvas shone."

There is a beautiful meaning in the old legend. Christ scorns no work
that is done for love of him. Most of us have much drudgery in our
lives, but even this we can make glorious by doing it through love for
Christ.

Things we do for others in Christ's name, are done for him. We all
remember that wonderful "inasmuch" in the twenty-fifth of Matthew. If
we find the sick one, or the poor one, and go and minister, as we may
be able, as unto the Lord, the deed is accepted as if done to him in
person. Mrs. Margaret J. Preston, in one of her beautiful poems, tells
of a weary sister who grieved sorely because, as it seemed to her, she
had not been able to do any work for Christ. By a mother's dying bed
she had promised to care for her little sister, and her work for the
child so filled her hands that she had not time for anything else. As
she grieved thus once, the little sister sleeping beside her stirred
and told her of a sweet, strange dream she had had. She thought her
sister was sitting sad because the King had bidden each one to bring
him a gift.

"And in my dream I saw you there,
And heard you say, 'No hands can bear
A gift, that are so filled with care.'

"What care?' the King said, and he smiled
To hear you answer, wailing wild,
'I only toil to feed a child.'

"And then with such a look divine
('Twas that awaked me with its shine),
He whispered, 'But the child is mine.'"

There are many for whom this little story-poem should have sweet
comfort. There are fathers and mothers who