The sign of rank in Nature Is capacity for pain, And the anguish of the singer Makes the sweetness of the strain.

The victory of her faith was complete.  If the inevitable why? sometimes was in her thought, no shadow of distrust ever fell upon her heart.  Her sick-room was the quietest, brightest spot in all the city.  How often did I go thither weary and faint with the roughness of the way, and leave feeling that I had heard the voices and inhaled the odors of paradise!  A little talk, a psalm, and then a prayer, during which the room seemed to be filled with angel-presences; after which the thin, pale face was radiant with the light reflected from our Immanuel’s face.  I often went to see her, not so much to convey as to get a blessing.  Her heart was kept fresh as a rose of Sharon in the dew of the morning.  The children loved to be near her; and the pathetic face of the dear crippled boy, the pet of the family, was always brighter in her presence.  Thrice death came into the home-circle with its shock and mighty wrenchings of the heart, but the victory was not his, but hers.  Neither death nor life could separate her from the love of her Lord.  She was one of the elect.  The elect are those who know, having the witness in themselves.  She was conqueror of both—­life with its pain and its weariness, death with its terror and its tragedy.  She did not endure merely, she triumphed.  Borne on the wings of a mighty faith, her soul was at times lifted above all sin, and temptation, and pain, and the sweet, abiding peace swelled into an ecstasy of sacred joy.  Her swimming eyes and rapt look told the unutterable secret.  She has crossed over the narrow stream on whose margin she lingered so long; and there was joy on the other side when the gentle, patient, holy Camilla Cain joined the glorified throng.

O though oft depressed and lonely, All my fears are laid aside, If I but remember only Such as these have lived and died!

Lone Mountain.

The sea-wind sweeps over the spot at times in gusts like the frenzy of hopeless grief, and at times in sighs as gentle as those heaved by aged sorrow in sight of eternal rest.  The voices of the great city come faintly over the sand-hills, with subdued murmur like a lullaby to the pale sleepers that are here lying low.  When the winds are quiet, which is not often, the moan of the mighty Pacific can be heard day or night, as if it voiced in muffled tones the unceasing woe of a world under the reign of death.  Westward, on the summit of a higher hill, a huge cross stretches its arms as if embracing the living and the dead-the first object that catches the eye of the weary voyager as he nears the Golden Gate, the last that meets his lingering gaze as he goes forth upon the great waters.  O sacred emblem of the faith with which we launch upon life’s stormy main—­of the hope that assures that we shall reach the port when the night and the tempest are past!  When the winds are high, the booming of the breakers on