weakly ones who are worsted and fallen in the fight.  The life of the spirit has its own unique temptations.  It is against these that we pray to-day.  We are all prepared to repent, to use abstinence, to mortify the body with its corrupt affections.  Are we prepared to bear the burden of our brother’s and our sister’s unrepentance?  Of their self-indulgence?  Of their sin?  To follow in all things the Divine Example?  We are told that the Saviour of the world was the friend of publicans and sinners.  We accept the statement, we have gone on accepting it, year after year, as the statement of a somewhat remote, but well-authenticated historical fact.  Have we yet realised its significance?  Have we pictured, are we able to picture to ourselves, what company He kept?  Among what surroundings His divine figure was actually seen?  In what purlieus of degenerate Jerusalem?  In what iniquitous splendours?  In what orgies of the Gentiles?  And who are they to whom He showed most tenderness?  Who but the rich young man?  The woman taken in adultery?  And Mary Magdalene with her seven devils?  Which is the divinest of the divine parables?  The parable of the prodigal son who devoured his father’s living with harlots!”

The Canon’s voice rose and fell, and rose again; thrilling, as his breast heaved with the immense pathos and burden of the world.

Anne had a vision of the Hannays and the Ransomes, and of the prodigal cast out from the house that loved him.  And she said to herself for the first time:  “Have I done right?  Have I done what Christ would have me do?” The light that went up in her was a light by which her deeds looked doubtful.  If she had failed in this, in charity?  She pondered the problem, while the Canon approached, gloriously, his peroration.

“Therefore we pray for charity”—­the Canon’s voice rang tears—­“for charity, oh, dear and tender Lord, lest, having known Thy love, we fall, ourselves, into the sins of unpity and of pride.”

Tears came into Anne’s eyes.  She was overcome, bowed, shaken by the Canon’s incomparable pleading.  The Canon was shaken by it himself, his voice trembled in the benediction that followed.  No one had a clearer vision of the spiritual city.  It was his tragedy that he saw it, and could not enter in.  Many, remembering that sermon, counted it, long afterwards, to him for righteousness.  It had conquered Anne.  The tongues of men and of angels, of all spiritual powers, human and divine, spoke to her in that vibrating, indomitable voice.

The problem it had raised remained with her, oppressed, tormented her.  What she had done had seemed to her so good.  But if, after all, she had done wrong?  If she had failed in charity?

She had come to a turning in her way when she could no longer see for herself, or walk alone.  She was prepared to surrender, meekly, her own judgment.  She must ask help of the priest whose voice told her that he had suffered, and whose eyes told her that he knew.