ears. It was
there I read my happiness. I am not sure that any words could have given
it me, though I found it sweeter than anything else I had known in my
life to have her tell me afterwards in words. It was an unforgettable
morning.

Why did she love him? Curious fool! be still;
Is human love the growth of human will?

John Crondall was my best man, as he has been always my best friend. He
insisted on my taking over the permanent secretaryship of _The Citizens_
when he went to the War Office. And since then I hope I have not ceased
to take my part in making our history; but it is true that there is not
much to tell that is not known equally well to everybody.

Assuredly peace hath her victories. Our national life has been a daily
succession of victories since we fought for and won real peace and
overcame the slavish notion that mere indolent quiescence could ever
give security. Our daily victory as a race is the triumph of race
loyalty over individual self-seeking; and I can conceive of no real
danger for the British Empire unless the day came, which God forbid,
when Englishmen forgot the gospel of our "New Century Puritanism"--the
Canadian preachers' teaching of Duty and simple living. And that day can
never come while our _Citizens'_ watchword endures:

"FOR GOD, OUR RACE, AND DUTY!"

For me, I feel that my share of happiness, since those sombre days of
our national chastisement, since those stern, strenuous months of
England's awakening to the new life and faith of the twentieth century,
has been more, far more, than my deserts. But I think we all feel that
in these days; I hope we do. If we should ever again forget, punishment
would surely come. But it is part of my happiness to believe that, at
long last, our now really united race, our whole family, four hundred
and twenty millions strong, has truly learned the lesson which our great
patriot poet tried to teach in the wild years before discipline came to
us, in the mailed hand of our one-time enemy:

_God of our fathers, known of old,
Lord of our far-flung battle-line,
Beneath Whose awful Hand we hold
Dominion over palm and pine--
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget--lest we forget!_

_The tumult and the shouting dies;
The captains and the kings depart:
Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice,
An humble and a contrite heart.
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forg