oth restore again
And me to walk doth make
Within the paths of righteousness
Ev'n for his own name's sake.
Yea, though I walk in death's dark vale,
Yet will I fear none ill,
For thou art with me; and thy rod
And staff me comfort still.
My table thou hast furnished
In presence of my foes;
My head thou dost with oil anoint,
And my cup overflows.
Goodness and mercy all my life
Shall surely follow me;
And in God's house for evermore
My dwelling place shall be.

Said an old Christian (a member of my church) seventy-eight years of
age, whose dear partner of his joys and sorrows whom I called to see in
her deep affliction (for she had fallen and broken a limb), as I read
the above psalm to them before engaging in prayer, "I remember when a
boy at home of hearing my dear kind mother rocking the children to
sleep singing that good old psalm of the Hebrew bard."

I received a telegram recently to call and see a wealthy manufacturer's
mother from Ayrshire, who was stricken with paralysis. As I entered the
room and took her hand, I said:

"I suppose you feel now in your sickness that the Lord is your
shepherd."

"Yes," said she, "and He leadeth me beside the still waters." Shortly
afterward she peacefully fell asleep in Jesus.

CHAPTER XV.

MISCELLANEOUS EXTRACTS FROM HER DIARY.

Have you heard of that wonderful city,
Whose walls are of jasper and gold?
Whose inhabitants ever are happy,
And never grow weary or old?

Have you heard of those emblems of vict'ry,
That all of the glorified bear?
Of the star-bedecked crowns of rejoicing
Which all of the ransomed shall wear?

HER GRATITUDE TO THE NEW YORK FLOWER MISSION.--In the middle of a busy
summer she writes: "The Flower Mission has enabled me to bring some
brightness and pleasure to the sufferers on sick beds, for which I am
very grateful."

Her ardent love of "sweet, sweet nature" is fully exemplified by
frequent visits to the New York Flower Mission Society's Rooms.

How refreshing to the sight of the sufferer are those gifts of earth's
adornment. And how pleasing are the words of the poet Burns:

"The snowdrop and primrose the woodlands adorn
And the violets they bathe in the weet of the morn."

THE YOUNG JEWESS.--Writing under this head, she says: "Some time since I
became acquainted with a young Jewess, who was very sick.