ught had hardly entered his mind when Beckwith sprang up and cried
out, "All right, John," and by a quick movement escaped beyond reach of
the enemy's fire.

On the return of Napoleon from Elba, Beckwith rejoined the standard of
Wellington, and took a prominent part in the battle of Waterloo. On this
day he had four horses killed under him, but received no personal injury
until he was struck by a cannon ball in the left leg from the retreating
fire of the French. After three months' unsuccessful treatment amputation
was declared necessary. This random shot, like the bow drawn at a venture
in an ancient battle, was pregnant with mighty consequences, not only to
Beckwith personally, but to that interesting people to whom as yet he had
never given a thought.

Beckwith, though only twenty-six years of age, was made a
lieutenant-colonel on the field of battle, and received the silver medal
struck to commemorate the victory. Had he not lost his leg he would
probably have risen to the highest distinction as a soldier. But if so he
might never have become the instrument of such extensive blessings to the
Vaudois as was destined in the providence of God.

The first foundation stone, so to speak, on which was to be erected the
spacious superstructure of his after benevolence began at the time of his
retirement to the chateau of Mont St. Jean, during the period of weakness
resulting from his wound at Waterloo. The owner of the mansion had a little
girl, six years of age, who was a most attentive nurse to him. She hardly
ever left his bedside, and by her childish prattling, innocent
pleasantries, and tender sympathy, won his regard, and spread a charm over
a time of pain and depression; so much so, indeed, that when the time of
separation came it greatly distressed him, and in after life he never spoke
of her without evident emotion.

But it was in this way God led him first to that benevolent interest in the
young which afterwards became so marked a feature of his character.

But up to this time, whilst Beckwith was not a sceptic, yet his faith was
not of an operative kind, he was taken up with those pursuits which
belonged solely to time. The means employed by God to awaken him to a
knowledge of the real aim of life was a copy of His own Word. This treasure
had lain unused at the bottom of his portmanteau until he lay wounded at a
little village near Courtray, in Belgium. Then he began to read with an
interest not previously