instinct, which I could not doubt if I would.  What wonder if I look forward with an eager and an ardent hope to death.  I can conceive no more welcome tidings than the tidings that death was at hand.  But I do not expect to die.  My health of body is almost miraculously preserved.  What I dare to hope is that I may learn by slow degrees to set the happiness of others above my own.  I will listen for any sound of grief or discontent, and I will try to quiet it.  I will spend my time and strength as freely as I can.  That is a far-off hope.  One cannot in a moment break through the self-consideration of a lifetime.  But whereas, before, my dim sense that happiness could not be found by deliberately searching for ease made me half rebellious, half uncomfortable, I know now that it is true, and I will turn my back if I can upon that lonely and unsatisfied quest.  I did indeed—­I can honestly say that—­ desire with a passionate intentness the happiness of Maud and the children; but I think I desired it most in order that the sunshine of their happiness should break in warmth and light upon myself.  It will be hard enough—­I can see that—­not to labour still for the sake of the ultimate results upon my own peace of mind.  But in my deepest heart I do not desire to do that, and I will not, God helping me.

And so to-day, having read the whole record once again, with blinding tears, tears of love, I think, not tears of self-pity, I will close the book and write no more.  But I will not destroy it, because it may help some soul that may come after me, into whose hands it may fall, to struggle on in the middle of sorrow and darkness.  To him will I gladly reveal all that God has done for my soul.  That poor, pitiful, shrinking soul, with all its faint desires after purity and nobleness and peace, all its self-wrought misery, all its unhappy failures, all its secret faults, its undiscerned weaknesses, I put humbly and confidently in the hands of the God who made me.  I cannot amend myself, but I can at least co-operate with His loving Will.  I can stumble onwards, with my hand in His, like a timid child with a strong and loving father.  I may wish to be lifted in His arms, I may wonder why He does not have more pity on my frailty.  But I can believe that He is leading me home, and that His way is the best and nearest.

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