y Father will give special
touches of His own hand upon his person, and upon his service.'

In one of his exquisitely quiet talks, Henry Drummond used to tell the
story of a famous statue in the Fine Arts Gallery of Paris. It was the
work of a great genius, who, like many a genius, was very poor, and lived
in a garret which served as both studio and sleeping-room.

One midnight, when the statue was just finished, a sudden frost fell upon
Paris. The sculptor lay awake in his fireless garret, and thought of the
still moist clay, thought how the moisture in the pores would freeze, and
the dream of his life would be destroyed in a night. So the old man rose
from his cot, and wrapped his bed-clothes reverently about the statue, and
lay down to his sleep.

In the morning the neighbors found[B] him lying dead. His life had gone
out into his work. It was saved. He was gone. But he still lived in it,
and still lives in it. He saved not his life, and he found a new life in
the world of his art. He that saveth his life shall surely lose it. He
that gladly giveth his life up for the Master's sake, and for men's sake,
will find a wholly new life coming to him.

<u>A Rare Harvest.</u>

There is a strange winsomeness about sacrifice, peculiar to itself, and
peculiarly strong in its drawing power. Everywhere men acknowledge the
peculiar fascination for them of the man who is not only wholly unselfish,
but who utterly forgets himself in doing for others. The feeling is very
common that the man in public life is chiefly concerned with what he can
get out of it for himself. And when, now and then, the conviction seizes
the crowd that some public man is not of that sort at all, but is devoting
himself unselfishly and unsparingly to their interest, their admiration
and love for him amounts to a worship and enthusiasm that knows no stint.

There's a something in unselfish sacrifice in their behalf that draws the
crowd peculiarly and tremendously. Jesus said that if He were lifted up He
would draw men. And He has. He was lifted up as none other, and He has
been drawing men ever since as none other ever has or can. Quite apart
from other truths involved, that sacrifice of His had in itself the
tremendous drawing power of all unselfish action.

And sacrifice brews a subtle fragrance of its own that clings to the
person as the soft sweet odor of wild roses. No one is ever conscious that
there is any such fragrance going out to others