must get to work. I am glad
to get to work. There is much to do, and it is worth while, if only to
keep one from getting useless and lazy.'

'Useless and lazy!' I said to myself, thinking of my life beside his,
and trying to get command of my voice, so as not to make quite a fool
of myself. And for many a day those words goaded me to work and to the
exercise of some mild self-denial. But more than all else, after Craig
had gone back to the mountains, Graeme's letters from the railway
construction camp stirred one to do unpleasant duty long postponed, and
rendered uncomfortable my hours of most luxurious ease. Many of the old
gang were with him, both of lumbermen and miners, and Craig was their
minister. And the letters told of how he laboured by day and by night
along the line of construction, carrying his tent and kit with him,
preaching straight sermons, watching by sick men, writing their letters,
and winning their hearts; making strong their lives, and helping them
to die well when their hour came. One day, these letters proved too much
for me, and I packed away my paints and brushes, and made my vow unto
the Lord that I would be 'useless and lazy' no longer, but would do
something with myself. In consequence, I found myself within three weeks
walking the London hospitals, finishing my course, that I might join
that band of men who were doing something with life, or, if throwing
it away, were not losing it for nothing. I had finished being a fool,
I hoped, at least a fool of the useless and luxurious kind. The letter
that came from Graeme, in reply to my request for a position on his
staff, was characteristic of the man, both new and old, full of gayest
humour and of most earnest welcome to the work.

Mrs. Mavor's reply was like herself--

'I knew you would not long be content with the making of pictures, which
the world does not really need, and would join your friends in the dear
West, making lives that the world needs so sorely.'

But her last words touched me strangely--

'But be sure to be thankful every day for your privilege. . . . It will
be good to think of you all, with the glorious mountains about you, and
Christ's own work in your hands. . . . Ah! how we would like to choose
our work, and the place in which to do it!'

The longing did not appear in the words, but I needed no words to tell
me how deep and how constant it was. And I take some credit to myself,
that in my reply I gave her no bidding t