expected?  The burn roars and leaps in the den; the stream chafes and frets through the rapids of the glen; the river does not grow calm and smooth until it nears the sea.  Courage is a virtue that the young cannot spare; to lose it is to grow old before the time; it is better to make a thousand mistakes and suffer a thousand reverses than to refuse the battle.  Resignation is the final courage of old age; it arrives in its own season; and it is a good day when it comes to us.  Then there are no more disappointments; for we have learned that it is even better to desire the things that we have than to have the things that we desire.  And is not the best of all our hopes—­the hope of immortality—­always before us?  How can we be dull or heavy while we have that new experience to look forward to?  It will be the most joyful of all our travels and adventures.  It will bring us our best acquaintances and friendships.  But there is only one way to get ready for immortality, and that is to love this life, and live it as bravely and cheerfully and faithfully as we can.

So my gentle teacher with the silver hair showed me the treasures of her ancient, simple faith; and I felt that no sermons, nor books, nor arguments can strengthen the doubting heart so deeply as just to come into touch with a soul which has proved the truth of that plain religion whose highest philosophy is “Trust in the Lord and do good.”  At the end of the evening the household was gathered for prayers, and the Mistress kneeled among her servants, leading them, in her soft Scottish accent, through the old familiar petitions for pardon for the errors of the day, and refreshing sleep through the night and strength for the morrow.  It is good to be in a land where the people are not ashamed to pray.  I have shared the blessing of Catholics at their table in lowly huts among the mountains of the Tyrol, and knelt with Covenanters at their household altar in the glens of Scotland; and all around the world, 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.”