nviction that there is need
for a law like our own English law, and we add--and those who know India
know how true this sentence is--_such legislation, however carefully
framed, will be a delusion, a blind, a dead letter, unless men of no
ordinary insight and courage and character are appointed to see that it
is carried out_.

God grant that these chapters, written in weakness, may yet do something
towards moving the Church to such prayer that the answer will be, as
once before, that an angel will be sent to open the doors of the
prison-house!

The frontispiece shows the rock to which we go sometimes when we feel
the need of a climb and a blow. It is associated in our minds with a
story:--"Between the passages by which Jonathan sought to go over unto
the Philistines' garrison there was a sharp rock on the one side and a
sharp rock on the other side. . . . And Jonathan said to the young man
that bare his armour: 'Come and let us go over unto the garrison of
these uncircumcised: it may be that the Lord will work for us: for there
is no restraint to the Lord to save by many or by few.' And his
armour-bearer said unto him: 'Do all that is in thine heart: turn thee,
behold I am with thee according to thy heart.'"

We have a rock to climb, and there is nothing the least romantic
about it. We shall have to climb it "upon our hands and upon our feet."
It is all grim earnest. "We make our way wrapped in glamour to the
Supreme Good, the summit," writes Guido Rey, the mountaineer, in the joy
of his heart. But later it is: "One precipice fell away at my feet, and
another rose above me. . . . It was no place for singing." Friends, we
shall come to such places on the Matterhorn of life. As we follow the
Gleam wherever it leads, may we count upon the upholding of those for
whom we have written--the lovers of little children?

And now, in conclusion, all I would say has already been so perfectly
said, that I cannot do better than copy from the writings of two who
fought a good fight and have been crowned--Miss Ellice Hopkins, brave,
sensitive, soldier-soul on the hardest of life's battlefields; and
George Herbert, courtier, poet, and saint. "Often in that nameless
discouragement," wrote Miss Hopkins, as she lay slowly dying, "before
unfinished tasks, unfulfilled aims and broken efforts, I have thought of
how the creative Word has fashioned the opal, made it of the same stuff
as desert sands, mere silica--not a crystallised stone li