And, in exactly the same way, there are very few things more
repelling than the feeling that a man has no time for you. It may be a
most excellent book; but if it has no margin, I shall never grow fond
of it. He may be a most excellent man; but if he lacks leisure,
restfulness, poise, I shall never be able to love him.

It is difficult to account for it; but the fact most certainly is that
the most winsome people in the world are the people who make you feel
that they are never in a hurry. The man whom you trust most readily is
the man with a little time to spare, or who makes you think that he
has. When my life gets tangled and twisted, and I want a minister to
help me, I shall be too timid to approach the man who is always in a
fluster. I feel instinctively that he is far too busy for poor me. He
tears through life like a superannuated whirlwind. If I meet him on
the street, his coat tails are always flying out behind him; his eyes
wear a hunted look; and a sense of feverish haste is stamped upon his
countenance. He reminds me of poor John Gilpin, for it is always neck
or nothing with him. He seems to be everlastingly consulting his
watch, and is always muttering something about his next engagement. He
gets through an amazing number of odd jobs in the course of a day, and
his diary will be a wonder to posterity. But he would be much better
off in the long run if he cultivated a margin. He makes people feel at
present that he is too busy for them. A poor woman, who is in great
trouble about her son, heard him preach last Sunday, and felt that she
would give anything to have a quiet talk with him about her sorrow, and
kneel with him as he commended both her and her wayward boy to the
Throne of the heavenly grace. But she dreads to be caught in the whirl
of his week-a-day flurry, and stays away, her grief eating her heart
out the while. A shrinking young girl is in perplexity about her love
affairs, and she feels sure, from some things he said in his sermon a
few weeks ago, that he could help her. But she remembers that in his
study he keeps a motto to remind her that his time is precious. If the
words 'Beware of the dog!' were painted on his study door, they could
not be more terrifying. She fears that, before she has half unfolded
the tender tale that she scarcely likes to tell, his hand will be upon
the doorknob. The tendency of the time is indisputably towards
flurry--the flurry of business or the f