as the cultivation of will power, as it is called, is concerned, I have no quarrel with those who maintain that a power of self-control is the basis of human happiness.  So far as the will can be trained to obey only those instincts that tend to the growth and maintenance of self-respect—­to prevent the subordination of our better feelings to the overpowering effects of passion, greed, or injustice—­it must help to the development of one of the primary necessities of a sane existence.  When, however, the same agency is brought to bear on the treatment of diseases in any shape or form I find my faith wavering.  Though there may be more things in earth and heaven than are dreamed of in my philosophy, I was not prepared to follow the teachings set before us by the interpreters of this belief, whose visit had made an interesting break in the lives of many people.  Truth I find everywhere expressed, goodness in all things; but I neither look for nor expect perfection in any one thing the world has ever produced.  “Tell me where God is,” a somewhat, cynical sceptic asked of a child.  “Tell me where He is not,” replied the child; and the same thing applies to goodness.  Do not tell me where goodness is, but point out to, me, if you can, where it is not.  It is for each one to find out for himself where the right path lies, and to follow it with all his strength of mind and of purpose.  Pippa’s song, “God’s in His heaven-all’s right with the world,” does not mean that the time has come for us to lay down our arms in the battle of right against wrong.  No! no; it is an inspiration for us to gird our loins afresh, to “right the wrongs that need resistance;” for, God being in His heaven, and the world itself being right, makes it so much easier to correct mistakes that are due to human agencies and shortcomings only.

I found time to spend a pleasant week at Victor Harbour with my friends, Mr. and Mrs. John Wyles.  I remember one day being asked whether I was not sorry I never married.  “No,” I replied, “for, although I often envy my friends the happiness they find in their children, I have never envied them their husbands.”  I think we must have been in a frivolous mood; for a lady visitor, who was present, capped my remark with the statement that she was quite sure Miss Spence was thankful that when she died she would not be described as the “relic” of any man.  It was the same lady who on another occasion, when one of the juvenile members of the party asked whether poets had to pay for poetical licence, wittily replied, “No, my dear, but their readers do!” Although so much of my time has been spent in public work, I have by no means neglected or despised the social side of life.  Visits to my friends have always been delightful to me, and I have felt as much interested in the domestic virtues of my many acquaintances as I have been an admirer of their grasp of literature, politics, or any branch of the arts or sciences in which they have been interested.