st things in the world and the finest are
always in transition: the bloom of tender Spring disappearing in the
dark verdure of Summer; the week of meadow-rue and nodding lilies
passing as silently as it came; the splendid hues of the autumnal hills
fading like the colours on a bubble; the dear child, whose innocence
and simplicity are a daily joy to you, growing up into a woman. Would
you keep her a child forever, her head always a little lower than your
heart? Would you stand where you are to-day, always doing the same
things, always repeating the same experiences, never leaving off? Then
be thankful that the Wisdom and Goodness by which this passing show is
ordered will not suffer you to indulge your foolish wish. The wisest
men and women are not those who cling tenaciously to one point of life,
with desperate aversion to all change, but those who travel cheerfully
through its mutations, finding in every season, in every duty, in every
pleasure, a time to begin and a time to cease, and moving on with
willing adaptation through the conclusion of each chapter to the end of
the book.

"And concerning that _Finis_ of the volume, which is printed in such
sober, black, italic type, I remember a good saying of old Michel de
Montaigne in one of his essays,--not the exact words, but the soul of
his remarks. He says that we cannot judge whether a man has been truly
fortunate in life until we have seen him act with tranquillity and
contentment in the last scene of his comedy, which is undoubtedly the
most difficult. For himself, he adds, his chief study and desire is
that he may well behave himself at his last gasp, that is quietly and
constantly. It is a good saying; for life has no finer lesson to teach
us than how to leave off."

"I wish you would promise me one thing," said I to my Uncle Peter:
"that you will not leave off before I do."

"Ah," he answered, "that is the one thing that no man can promise
another. We can promise not to break friendship, not to cut loose, not
to cease loving, not to forget. Isn't that enough?"

He stood up reverently and bared his head. The music of the long-metre
doxology was floating through the open windows.

"Listen," he said. "If that is true, what more do we need? We are all
in His hand."

BOOKS BY HENRY VAN DYKE

PUBLISHED BY CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS

* * * * *

The Ruling Passion. Illus