’My darling Pena,—­I am going to tell you a secret, and I am afraid it is one which will make you feel very sorry for a little while.  Do you remember my talking to you one day after breakfast rather gravely, and telling you afterwards it was my first sermon to you?  Well, my darling, I was trying to hint to you that you must not expect to go on very long in this world without troubles and trials, and that the use of them is to make us think more about God and about Heaven, and to remember that our real and unchangeable happiness is not to be found in this world, but in the next.  It was rather strange for me to say all this to a bright happy good child like you, and I told you that you ought to be bright and happy, and to thank God for making you so.  It is never right for us to try to make ourselves sad and grieve.  Good people and good children are cheerful and happy, although they may have plenty of trials and troubles.  You see how quietly and patiently Mamma and Grandpapa and Grandmamma take all their trouble about dear Aunty; that is a good lesson for us all.  And now, my darling, I will tell you my secret.  I am going to sail at Christmas, if I live so long, a great way from England, right to the other end of the world, with the good Bishop of New Zealand.  I dare say you know where to find it on the globe.  Clergymen are wanted out there to make known the Word of God to the poor ignorant people, and for many reasons it is thought right that I should go.  So after Christmas you will not see me again for a very long time, perhaps never in this world; but I shall write to you very often, and send you ferns and seeds, and tell you about the Norfolk Island pines, and you must write to me, and tell me all about yourself, and always think of me, and pray for me, as one who loves you dearly with all his heart, and will never cease to pray God that the purity and innocence of your childhood may accompany you all through your life and make you a blessing (as you are now, my darling) to your dear mother and all who know you.

’Ever your most affectionate,

‘J.  C. Patteson.’

To the child’s mother the words are:—­

’I pray God that I may have chosen aright, and that if I have acted from sudden impulse too much, from love of display, or from desire to raise some interest about myself, or from any other selfish and unholy motive, it may be mercifully forgiven.

’Now, at all events, I must pray that with a single honest desire for God’s glory, I may look straight onwards towards the mark.  I must forget what is behind, I must not lose time in analysing my state of mind to see how, during years past, this wish has worked itself out.  I trust the wish is from God, and now I must forget myself, and think only of the work whereunto I am called.  But it is hard to flesh and blood to think of the pain I am causing my dear dear Father, and the pain I am causing to others outside my own circle here.  But they are all satisfied that I am doing what is right, and it would surprise you, although you know them so well, to hear the calmness with which we talk about outfits.’