LUX.

"So," prayed we, "when our feet draw near
The river dark with mortal fear,
And the night cometh, chill with dew,
O Father, let Thy light break through!
So let the hills of doubt divide--
So bridge with faith the sunless tide--
So let the eyes that fail on earth
On Thine eternal hills look forth;
And, in Thy beckoning angels, know
The dear ones whom we loved below."

Whittier.

This eventful year closed with death. Not a martyr death; God's martyr
train was closed in England now, for the last to join it had been Roger
Holland. Another kind of death was this. Softly, and tenderly, as He
called to Samuel, the Lord came and stood and called her--her who was
loved so dearly, whose going out made the world darker. With a
"_Talitha cumi_"--a "Come up higher"--He summoned the beloved to the
Home where His beloved dwell with Him. And what answer was left for her
but "Lord, here am I"? So she spread the angel wings which had been
folded, that they could not be seen; and as she soared gladly up into
the heavenly light, the darkness of time and of earth thickened around
those she left behind.

O Lord our Master! Thy voice is very sweet here below. Not only Thy
staff, but even Thy rod comforteth; yea, it is with Thy rod that Thou
dost feed Thy people. How much sweeter, when as one whom his mother
comforteth, so dost Thou comfort us! And sweetest of all it must be, to
arise and _go to_ Thee.

Wherefore, then, are we so unwilling? What mean we continually to talk
of being "spared"--spared from that happy journey, from that heavenly
Home! They that are not journeying home are spared indeed: but how
faithless, how loveless is it in us to bring up an evil report of the
good Land, to show such fear and distance from the forgiving and
welcoming Father!

"He that is washed needeth only to wash his feet." But, O our Father!
the feet of Thy children need a perpetual washing, an hourly dipping in
the blessed waters of the Fountain which Thou hast opened for sin and
for uncleanness.

This was the last entry in Isoult Avery's diary for the year 1558:--

"The Minories, Saint Stephen.

"`God knoweth best when His corn is ripe.'

"I have been told this to-day, and I need remember it this even.
Otherwise, methinks a shower of tears should blot out my writing. I
thought that sheaf could be no riper, years ago. The storms had beaten
on it, but had not hurt it, and it was very fair; and now i