f" mingling
with the mighty bass of the Mother Anthem. He beholds the Union Jack,
enriched with the Canadian emblem. Gazing on the battered few, he sees
the survivors of the battle, and he knows that the unreturning feet rest
in the soil they have won to freedom; Canadian lads were these who have
insisted with dying lips that Britains never shall be slaves. His
adopted land has given of its choicest blood to swell the sacred tide
that for centuries hath laved the shores of liberty.

All this surges in upon him, and the savage joy of empire fills his
heart. His loneliness has fled, and he feels that beyond the ocean he is
at home, the old home, with its ever open gate for its far-flung
children. The mighty roar becomes the gentle whisper of Britain's lips,
bidding him draw closer to the imperial fireside and warm himself at
its imperishable flame.

He follows them for a time, then turns and slowly wends his way back to
the hotel. As he walks on, the shouting and the tumult die, the banners
gleam no more, and he is left alone with the empire of his heart, and
with other worlds to conquer. We need no swift-flying transport to bear
us to life's greatest battle-fields.

A little waif, a boy of ten, pinched and ragged, was gazing in a window
as Mr. Blake passed along. A question from the man, a quick and pathetic
answer from the boy--and they went in together. Then the man came out
alone, and the fervent joy of an hour ago was gone, but a deeper
gladness had taken the room it left behind. It is still there--a
life-tenant--for its lease cannot be broken till memory dies.

When he re-entered the hotel, the clerk recognized him and said:

"Your train goes in an hour, sir. You are going up to Scotland, I think
you said."

Scotland! The word inflamed him; and he hurried to his room to prepare
for departure.

The guard's sharp whistle sounded, and the train, with British
promptness, flew out of the Lime Street station, one heart at least
strangely thrilled, one face steadfastly set towards Scotland's waiting
hills.

He was alone in the compartment, and the long night seemed only like a
watch thereof. He was alone, yet not alone--for Memory sat beside him,
and Conscience, and Hope. No, he was not alone; for there wrestled a Man
with him till the breaking of the day. And still the train flew on, as
though it knew; on it flew, as though the unseen Wrestler himself had
his hand upon the engine's throat.

The sun was rising