rally little more than an official smile, a kindly tolerance, a
voluble stream of commonplaces.

And then, too, it is hard to see, to speak candidly, what God is doing
in the matter. One sees useful careers cut ruthlessly short, generous
qualities nullified by bad health or minute faults, promise
unfulfilled, men and women bound in narrow, petty, uncongenial spheres,
the whole matter in a sad disorder. One sees one man's influence spoilt
by over-confidence, by too strong a sense of his own significance, and
another man made ineffective by diffidence and self-distrust. The best
things of life, the most gracious opportunities, such as love and
marriage, cannot be entered upon from a sense of duty, but only from an
overpowering and instinctive impulse.

Is it not possible to arrive at some tranquil harmony of life, some
self-evolution, which should at the same time be ardent and generous?
In my own sad unrest of spirit, I seem to be alike incapable of working
for the sake of others and working to please myself. Perhaps that is
but the symptom of a moral disease, a malady of the soul. Yet if that
is so, and if one once feels that disease and, suffering is not a part
of the great and gracious purpose of God--if it is but a failure in His
design--the struggle is hopeless. One sees all around one men and women
troubled by no misgivings, with no certain aim, just doing whatever the
tide of life impels them to do. My neighbour here is a man who for
years has gone up to town every day to his office. He is perfectly
contented, absolutely happy. He has made more money than he will ever
need or spend, and he will leave his children a considerable fortune.
He is kind, respectable, upright; he is considered a thoroughly
enviable man, and indeed, if prosperity and contentment are the sign
and seal of God's approbation, such a man is the highest work of God,
and has every reason to be an optimist. He would think my questionings
morbid and my desires moonshine. He is not necessarily right any more
than I; but his theory of life works out a good deal better for him
than mine for me.

Well, we drift, we drift! Sometimes the sun shines bright on the wave,
and the wheeling birds dip and hover, and our heart is full of song.
But sometimes we plunge on rising billows, with the wind wailing, and
the rain pricking the surface with needle-points; we are weary and
uncomforted; and we do not know why we suffer, or why we are glad.
Sometimes I ha