ious.
No one knows this better than a girl. She has done things when necessity
compelled her to do them, and she has done them when love compelled her
to do them. She knows the difference. Jesus founded His Kingdom on the
knowledge He had of Love. He _knew_ the kingdom would stand. On his
lonely island of banishment dreaming in the twilight, with all the
struggle and attainment behind him Napoleon realized it as he said,
"Caesar, Charlemagne, I, have founded empires. They were founded on
force and have perished. Jesus Christ has founded a kingdom on Love, and
to this day there are millions who would die for Him."

When I say that the religion of girlhood is the religion of Love I mean
real love. Warm, sweet, tender, quick to understand, quick to discern
need, tireless in service. I mean the love that does not wait to be
asked to serve, the love that gives because it must give. When a girl's
religion is filled with this love and rests upon it the girl does not
say, "Well, I suppose if I am a Christian I can't do that." The thought
in her heart if it were put into words would be, "I wonder if He would
want me to do that?" Simple, natural, sincere desire not to do the thing
displeasing to One who loves and is loved.

One day I was looking at a deep well, sunk away down in the rocks.
Machinery dragged the water from the earth and machinery turned it into
service. Some days later I saw a mountain spring. It poured and poured
out over the rocks, down the precipice into the brook, on into the
river. It ran as if it were glad to run and would never stop! Green
things grew on every side of it, mosses clung to the rocks it touched,
rich grass filled the meadow through which it flowed, birds followed it.
Life and beauty seemed to spring from every place it touched.

When I remembered the well of water deep down in rock, dragged up by
machinery it seemed to me like religion, the religion of service through
duty, and I knew that it would keep right on serving as long as the
machinery worked and would do its part dutifully.

Then I looked again at the spring. It seemed to me like religion, the
religion of love that blessed because it is its nature to bless and
poured itself out in service because it must.

It is the religion of love which holds one to the side of the road where
need is great, work must be done, perhaps sacrifice made. That Samaritan
who stopped, dismounted, tenderly cared for an injured brother of hated
race, li