asure in putting off shadows and troubles, and not
letting them fall in showers on those about us. We need not be stoical
or affectedly bright; we often cannot give those who love us greater
joy than to tell them of our troubles and let them comfort us. And we
can be practical too in our outlook, because much of the grittiest
irritation of life is caused by indulging indolence when we ought not,
and being hurried when we might be leisurely. It is astonishing how a
little planning will help us in all this, and how soon a habit is set
up. We do not, it is true, know the limits of our power of choice. But
the illusion, if it be an illusion, that we have a power of choice, is
an infinitely more real fact to most of us than the molecular motion
of the brain particles.

And then too there is another fact, which is becoming more and more
clear, namely, what is called the power of suggestion. That if we can
put a thought into our mind, not into our reason, but into our inner
mind of instinct and force, whether it be a base thought or a noble
thought, it seems to soak unconsciously into the very stuff of the
mind, and keep reproducing itself even when we seem to have forgotten
all about it. And this is, I believe, one of the uses of prayer, that
we put a thought into the mind, which can abide with us, secretly it
may be, all the day; and that thus it is not a mere pious habit or
tradition to have a quiet period at the beginning of the day, in which
we can nurture some joyful and generous hope, but as real a source of
strength to the spirit as the morning meal is to the body. I have
myself found that it is well, if one can, to read a fragment of some
fine, generous, beautiful, or noble-minded book at such an hour.

There is in many people who work hard with their brains a curious and
unreal mood of sadness which hangs about the waking hour, which I have
thought to be a sort of hunger of the mind, craving to be fed; and
this is accompanied, at least in me, by a very swift, clear, and
hopeful apprehension, so that a beautiful thought comes to me as a
draught of water to a thirsty man. So I make haste, as often as may
be, just to drop such a thought at those times into the mind; it falls
to the depths, as one may see a bright coin go gleaming and shifting
down to the depths of a pool; or to use a homelier similitude, like
sugar that drops to the bottom of a cup, sweetening the draught.

These are little homely things; but it is th