ld, where the
spirit of prayer is, there is peace. The genius of the Scotch has made
many contributions to literature, but none I think, more precious, and
none that comes closer to the heart, than the prayer which Robert Louis
Stevenson wrote for his family in distant Samoa, the night before he
died:--

"We beseech thee, Lord, to behold us with favour, folk of many families
and nations, gathered together in the peace of this roof: weak men and
women subsisting under the covert of thy patience. Be patient still;
suffer us yet a while longer--with our broken promises of good, with our
idle endeavours against evil--suffer us a while longer to endure, and
(if it may be) help us to do better. Bless to us our extraordinary
mercies; if the day come when these must be taken, have us play the man
under affliction. Be with our friends, be with ourselves. Go with each
of us to rest; if any awake, temper to them the dark hours of watching;
and when the day returns to us--our sun and comforter--call us with
morning faces, eager to labour, eager to be happy, if happiness shall be
our portion, and, if the day be marked to sorrow, strong to endure it.
We thank thee and praise thee; and, in the words of Him to whom this day
is sacred, close our oblation."

The man who made that kindly human prayer knew the meaning of white
heather. And I dare to hope that I too have known something of its
meaning, since that evening when the Mistress of the Glen picked the
spray and gave it to me on the lonely moor. "And now," she said, "you
will be going home across the sea; and you have been welcome here, but
it is time that you should go, for there is the place where your real
duties and troubles and joys are waiting for you. And if you have left
any misunderstandings behind you, you will try to clear them up; and
if there have been any quarrels, you will heal them. Carry this little
flower with you. It's not the bonniest blossom in Scotland, but it's the
dearest, for the message that it brings. And you will remember that love
is not getting, but giving; not a wild dream of pleasure, and a madness
of desire--oh no, love is not that--it is goodness, and honour, and
peace, and pure living--yes, love is that; and it is the best thing
in the world, and the thing that lives longest. And that is what I am
wishing for you and yours with this bit of white heather."

1893.

THE RISTIGOUCHE FROM A HORSE-YACHT

Dr. Paley was ardently attached