rker; but, he reflected sadly, _love_ had failed him
long ago, and of _God_ he had no knowledge at all.

III

When those three tremendous words next confronted Rodney Steele, they
were worked, not in silk, but in stone! In a lower flat, in the same
building in Harley Street, there dwelt a Bishop's widow. Rodney got to
know her, to like her, and, at last, to confide in her. One afternoon
they were discussing the novel that all London was reading, _The Great
Divide_. It was from his own pen, but he did not tell her so. Mrs.
Bellamy--the widow--confessed that, in spite of its brilliance, she did
not like it. It betrayed bitterness, a loss of ideals, a disbelief in
love; it was not uplifting.

'It is life,' Rodney replied. 'Life tends to make a man lose faith in
love.'

But Mrs. Bellamy would not hear of it.

'May I tell you,' she asked, 'the Bishop's way of meeting all
difficulties, sorrows and perplexities?'

'Do tell me,' said Rodney.

'He met them with three little words, each of one syllable. Yet that
sentence holds the truth of greatest import to our poor world; and its
right understanding readjusts our entire outlook upon life, and should
affect all our dealings with our fellow men: GOD IS LOVE. In our first
home--a country parish in Surrey--three precious children were born to
us--Griselda, Irene and little Launcelot. Scarlet fever and diphtheria
broke out in the village, a terrible epidemic, causing grief and anxiety
in many homes. We were almost worn out with helping our poor
people--nursing, consoling, encouraging. Then, just as the epidemic
appeared to be abating, it reached our own home. Our darlings were
stricken suddenly. Mr. Steele, we lost all three in a fortnight! My
little Lancy was the last to go. When he died in my arms I felt I could
bear no more.

'My husband led me out into the garden. It was a soft, sweet, summer
night. He took me in his arms and stood long in silence, looking up to
the quiet stars, while I sobbed upon his breast. At last he said, "My
wife, there is one rope to which we must cling steadfastly, in order to
keep our heads above water amid these overwhelming waves of sorrow. It
has three golden strands. It will not fail us. GOD--IS--LOVE."

'The nursery was empty. There was no more patter of little feet; no
children's merry voices shouted about the house. The three little graves
in the churchyard bore the names Griselda, Irene and Launcelot; and on
each we put the text, s