eparate her from the love of her Lord. She
was one of the elect. The elect are those who know, having the witness
in themselves. She was conqueror of both--life with its pain and its
weariness, death with its terror and its tragedy. She did not endure
merely, she triumphed. Borne on the wings of a mighty faith, her soul
was at times lifted above all sin, and temptation, and pain, and the
sweet, abiding peace swelled into an ecstasy of sacred joy. Her swimming
eyes and rapt look told the unutterable secret. She has crossed over the
narrow stream on whose margin she lingered so long; and there was joy on
the other side when the gentle, patient, holy Camilla Cain joined the
glorified throng.

O though oft depressed and lonely, All my fears are laid aside, If I but
remember only Such as these have lived and died!

Lone Mountain.

The sea-wind sweeps over the spot at times in gusts like the frenzy of
hopeless grief, and at times in sighs as gentle as those heaved by aged
sorrow in sight of eternal rest. The voices of the great city come
faintly over the sand-hills, with subdued murmur like a lullaby to the
pale sleepers that are here lying low. When the winds are quiet, which
is not often, the moan of the mighty Pacific can be heard day or night,
as if it voiced in muffled tones the unceasing woe of a world under the
reign of death. Westward, on the summit of a higher hill, a huge cross
stretches its arms as if embracing the living and the dead-the first
object that catches the eye of the weary voyager as he nears the Golden
Gate, the last that meets his lingering gaze as he goes forth upon the
great waters. O sacred emblem of the faith with which we launch upon
life's stormy main--of the hope that assures that we shall reach the
port when the night and the tempest are past! When the winds are high,
the booming of the breakers on the cliff sounds as if nature were
impatient of the long, long delay, and had anticipated the last thunders
that wake the sleeping dead. On a clear day, the blue Pacific,
stretching away beyond the snowy surf-line, symbolizes the shoreless sea
that rolls through eternity. The Cliff House road that runs hard by is
the chief drive of the pleasure-seekers of San Francisco. Gayety, and
laughter, and heart-break, and tears, meet on the drive; the wail of
agony and the laugh of gladness mingle as the gay crowds dash by the
slow-moving procession on its way to the grave. How often have I made
that s