Would that I could enrich this sketch with the names of all those who have ministered to my happiness! Some of them would be found written in our literature ao the hearts of many, while others would be wholly unknown to most of my readers. But their influehough it escapes fame, shall live immortal in the lives that have beeened and ennobled by it. Those are red-letter days in our lives when we meet people who thrill us like a fine poem, people whose handshake is brimful of unspoken sympathy, and whose sweet, riatures impart ter, impatient spirits a wonderful restfulness which, in its essence, is divihe perplexities, irritations and worries that have absorbed us pass like unpleasant dreams, and we wake to see with new eyes and hear with new ears the beauty and harmony of Gods real world. The solemn nothings that fill our everyday life blossom suddenly intht possibilities. In a word, while such friends are near us we feel that all is well. Perhaps we never saw them before, and they may never cross our lifes path again; but the influence of their calm, mellow natures is a libation poured upon our distent, and we feel its healing touch, as the o feels the mountain stream freshening its brine.
I have often been asked, "Do not people bore you?" I do not uand quite what that means. I suppose the calls of the stupid and curious, especially of neer reporters, are always inopportune. I also dislike people who try to talk down to my uanding. They are like people who when walking with you try to shorten their steps to suit yours; the hypocrisy in both cases is equally exasperating.
The hands of those I meet are dumbly eloquent to me. The touch of some hands is an impertinence. I have met people so empty of joy, that when I clasped their frosty fiips, it seemed as if I were shaking hands with a northeast storm. Others there are whose hands have sunbeams in them, so that their grasp warms my heart. It may be only the ging touch of a childs hand; but there is as much potential sunshine in it for me as there is in a loving glance for others. A hearty handshake or a friendly letter gives me genuine pleasure.
I have many far-off friends whom I have never seen. Ihey are so many that I have often been uo reply to their letters; but I wish to say here that I am always grateful for their kind words, however insuffitly I aowledge them.
I t it one of the sweetest privileges of my life to have known and versed with many men of genius.
Only those who knew Bishop Brooks appreciate the joy his friendship was to those who possessed it. As a child I loved to sit on his knee and clasp his great hand with one of mine, while Miss Sullivan spelled into the other his beautiful words about God and the spiritual world. I heard him with a childs wonder and delight. My spirit could not reach up to his, but he gave me a real sense of joy in life, and I never left him without carrying away a fihought that grew iy ah of meaning as I grew. Once, when I uzzled to know why there were so many religions, he said: "There is one universal religion, Helen--the religion of love. Love your Heavenly Father with your whole heart and soul, love every child of God as much as ever you , and remember that the possibilities of goreater than the possibilities of evil; and you have the key to Heaven." And his life py illustration of this great truth. In his noble soul love and widest knowledge were blended with faith that had bee insight. He saw God in all that