of the Spirit, and precious little else in the way of weapons of offence or defence.  But we couldn’t get on without the spiritual brotherhood, whatever became of our special creeds.  There is a genius for religion, just as there is for painting or sculpture.  It is half-sister to the genius for music, and has some of the features which remind us of earthly love.  But it lifts us all by its mere presence.  To see a good man and hear his voice once a week would be reason enough for building churches and pulpits.  The Master stopped all at once, and after about half a minute laughed his pleasant laugh.

What is it?—­I asked him.

I was thinking of the great coach and team that is carrying us fast enough, I don’t know but too fast, somewhere or other.  The D. D.’s used to be the leaders, but now they are the wheel-horses.  It’s pretty hard to tell how much they pull, but we know they can hold back like the——­

—­When we’re going down hill,—­I said, as neatly as if I had been a High-Church curate trained to snap at the last word of the response, so that you couldn’t wedge in the tail of a comma between the end of the congregation’s closing syllable and the beginning of the next petition.  They do it well, but it always spoils my devotion.  To save my life, I can’t help watching them, as I watch to see a duck dive at the flash of a gun, and that is not what I go to church for.  It is a juggler’s trick, and there is no more religion in it than in catching a ball on the fly.

I was looking at our Scheherezade the other day, and thinking what a pity it was that she had never had fair play in the world.  I wish I knew more of her history.  There is one way of learning it,—­making love to her.  I wonder whether she would let me and like it.  It is an absurd thing, and I ought not to confess, but I tell you and you only, Beloved, my heart gave a perceptible jump when it heard the whisper of that possibility overhead!  Every day has its ebb and flow, but such a thought as that is like one of those tidal waves they talk about, that rolls in like a great wall and overtops and drowns out all your landmarks, and you, too, if you don’t mind what you are about and stand ready to run or climb or swim.  Not quite so bad as that, though, this time.  I take an interest in our Scheherezade.  I am glad she did n’t smile on the pipe and the Bohemian-looking fellow that finds the best part of his life in sucking at it.  A fine thing, isn’t it; for a young woman to marry a man who will hold her

   “Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his horse,”

but not quite so good as his meerschaum?  It is n’t for me to throw stones, though, who have been a Nicotian a good deal more than half my days.  Cigar-stump out now, and consequently have become very bitter on more persevering sinners.  I say I take an interest in our Scheherezade, but I rather think it is more paternal than anything else, though my heart did give that jump.  It has jumped a good many times without anything very remarkable coming of it.