faithless hands; I saw at last that to save the soul one
must assuredly lose it; that if it was to grow strong and joyful and
wise, it must be sold into servitude and dark afflictions. I saw that
when I was too weak to save it, God had rent it from me, but that from
the darkness of the pit it should fare forth upon a mighty voyage, and
be made pure and faithful in a region undreamed of.

To Reuben was left nothing but shame and sorrow of heart and deceit to
hide his sin; unlike him, to me was given to see, beyond the desert and
the dwindling line of camels, the groves and palaces of the land of
wisdom, whither my sad soul was bound, lonely and dismayed. My heart
went out to the day of reconciliation, when I should be forgiven with
tears of joy for my own faltering treachery, when my soul should be
even grateful for my weakness, because from that very faithlessness,
and from no other, should the new life be born.

And thus with a peaceful hope that lay beyond shame and sorrow alike,
as the shining plain lies out beyond the broken crags of the weary
mountain, I gave myself utterly into the Hands of the Father of All. He
was close beside me that day, upholding, comforting, enriching me. Not
hidden in clouds from which the wrathful trumpet pealed, but walking
with a tender joy, in a fragrance of love, in the garden, at the cool
of the day.

August 18, 1891.

Mr. ---- is dead. He died yesterday, holding my hand. The end was quite
sudden, though not unexpected. He had been much weaker of late, and he
knew he could only live a short time. I have been much with him these
last few days. He could not talk much, but there was a peaceful glory
on his face which made me think of the Pilgrims in the Pilgrim's
Progress whose call was so joyful. I never suspected how little desire
he had to live; but when he knew that his days were numbered, he
allowed something of his delight to escape him, as a prisoner might who
has borne his imprisonment bravely and sees his release draw nigh. He
suffered a good deal, but each pang was to him only like the smiting
off of chains. "I have had a very happy life," he said to me once with
a smile. "Looking back, it seems as though my later happiness had
soaked backwards through the whole fabric, so that my joy in age has
linked itself as by a golden bridge to the old childish raptures." Then
he looked curiously at me, with a half-smile, and added, "But happy as
I have been, I find it in my hear