out of its exquisite beauty by the intense expression of suffering it conveyed.  Any distortion of the face by mental agony implies that a struggle with circumstance is going on.  But in this face, if such struggle had been, it was over now.  Circumstance had conquered; and there was no hope from mortal endeavour, or help from mortal creature, to be had.  But the eyes looked onward and upward to the “hills from whence cometh our help.”  And though the parted lips seemed ready to quiver with agony, yet the expression of the whole face, owing to these strange, stony, and yet spiritual eyes, was high and consoling.  If mortal gaze had never sought its meaning before, in the deep shadow where it had been placed long centuries ago, yet Ruth’s did now.  Who could have imagined such a look?  Who could have witnessed—­perhaps felt—­such infinite sorrow and yet dared to lift it up by Faith into a peace so pure?  Or was it a mere conception?  If so, what a soul the unknown carver must have had; for creator and handicraftsman must have been one; no two minds could have been in such perfect harmony.  Whatever it was—­however it came there—­imaginer, carver, sufferer, all were long passed away.  Human art was ended—­human life done—­human suffering over; but this remained; it stilled Ruth’s beating heart to look on it.  She grew still enough to hear words which have come to many in their time of need, and awed them in the presence of the extremest suffering that the hushed world had ever heard of.

The second lesson for the morning of the 25th of September is the 26th chapter of St. Matthew’s Gospel.

And when they prayed again Ruth’s tongue was unloosed, and she also could pray, in His name who underwent the agony in the garden.

As they came out of church, there was a little pause and gathering at the door.  It had begun to rain; those who had umbrellas were putting them up; those who had not were regretting, and wondering how long it would last.  Standing for a moment, impeded by the people who were thus collected under the porch, Ruth heard a voice close to her say, very low, but very distinctly—­

“I have much to say to you—­much to explain.  I entreat you to give me the opportunity.”

Ruth did not reply.  She would not acknowledge that she heard; but she trembled nevertheless, for the well-remembered voice was low and soft, and had yet its power to thrill.  She earnestly desired to know why and how he had left her.  It appeared to her as if that knowledge could alone give her a relief from the restless wondering that distracted her mind, and that one explanation could do no harm.

“No!” the higher spirit made answer; “it must not be.”

Ruth and the girls had each an umbrella.  She turned to Mary, and said—­

“Mary, give your umbrella to Mr. Donne, and come under mine.”  Her way of speaking was short and decided; she was compressing her meaning into as few words as possible.  The little girl obeyed in silence.  As they went first through the churchyard stile Mr. Donne spoke again.