Till Lady Boyd’s lost diary is recovered to us let us gather a few things about this remarkable woman out of the letters and reminiscences of such men as Livingstone and Rutherford and her namesake, Principal Boyd of Trochrig.  Rutherford, especially, was, next to her midnight page, her ladyship’s confidential and bosom friend.  ‘Now Madam,’ he writes in a letter from Aberdeen, ‘for your ladyship’s own case.’  And then he addresses himself in his finest style to console his correspondent, regarding some of the deepest and most painful incidents of her rare and genuine Christian experience.  ‘Yes,’ he says, ’be sorry at corruption, and be not secure about yourself as long as any of it is there.’  Corruption, in this connection, is a figure of speech.  It is a kind of technical term much in vogue with spiritual writers of the profounder kind.  It expresses to those unhappy persons who have the thing in themselves, and who are also familiar with the Scriptural and experimental use of the word—­to them it expresses with fearful truth and power the sinfulness of their own hearts, as that sinfulness abides and breaks out continually.  Now, how could Lady Boyd, being the woman she was, but be sorry and inconsolably sorry to find all that in her own heart every day?  No wonder that she and her son never referred to what she had written and he had read in his mother’s lockfast book that never-to-be-forgotten night.

‘Be sorry at corruption, and be not secure.’  How could she be secure when she saw and felt every day that deadly disease eating at her own heart?  She could not be secure for an hour; she would have been anything but the grave and prudent woman she was—­she would have been mad—­had she for a single moment felt secure with such a corrupt heart.  You must all have read a dreadful story that went the round of the newspapers the other day.  A prairie hunter came upon a shanty near Winnipeg, and found—­of all things in the world!—­a human foot lying on the ground outside the door.  Inside was a young English settler bleeding to death, and almost insane.  He had lost himself in the prairie-blizzard till his feet were frozen to mortification, and in his desperation he had taken a carving-knife and had hacked off his most corrupt foot and had thrown it out of doors.  And then, while the terrified hunter was getting help, the despairing man cut off the other corrupt foot also.  I hope that brave young Englishman will live till some Winnipeg minister tells him of a yet more terrible corruption than ever took hold of a frozen foot, and of a knife that cuts far deeper than the shanty carver, and consoles him in death with the assurance that it was of him that Jesus Christ spoke in the Gospel long ago, when He said that it is better to enter into life halt and maimed, rather than having two feet to be cast into everlasting fire.  There was no knife in Ardross Castle that would reach down to Lady Boyd’s corrupt heart; had there been, she would have first