ound in the whole history of literature.

Instances of this heroic quality of self-forgetfulness in the
interest of others are more frequent than we realize. Dr. Louis
Albert Banks mentions the following illustration: "The other day, in
one of our cities, two small boys signaled a street-car. When the car
stopped it was noticed that one boy was lame. With much solicitude
the other boy helped the cripple aboard, and, after telling the
conductor to go ahead, returned to the sidewalk. The lame boy braced
himself up in his seat so that he could look out of the car window,
and the other passengers observed that at intervals the little fellow
would wave his hand and smile. Following the direction of his
glances, the passengers saw the other boy running along the sidewalk,
straining every muscle to keep up with the car. They watched his
pantomime in silence for a few blocks, and then a gentleman asked the
lame boy who the other boy was: 'My brother,' was the prompt reply.
'Why does he not ride with you in the car?' was the next question.
'Because he hasn't any money,' answered the lame boy, sorrowfully.
But the little runner--running that his crippled brother might ride--
had a face in which sorrow had no part, only the gladness of a self-
denying soul. O my brother, you who long to do great service for the
King and reach life's noblest triumph, here is your picture--willing
to run that the crippled lives may ride, willing to bear one
another's burdens, and so fulfill the law of Christ--that is the
spirit of the King's country."

"The path of service is open to all, nay, we stumble on to the path
daily without knowing it. Ivan Tourguenieff, in one of his beautiful
poems in prose, says, 'I was walking in the street; a beggar stopped
me--a frail old man. His inflamed, tearful eyes, blue lips, rough
rags, disgusting sores--oh, how horribly poverty had disfigured the
unhappy creature! He stretched out to me his red, swollen, filthy
hands; he groaned and whimpered for alms. I felt in all my pockets;
no purse, watch, or handkerchief did I find; I had left them all at
home. The beggar waited, and his outstretched hand twitched and
trembled. Embarrassed and confused, I seized his dirty hand and
pressed it. 'Don't be vexed with me, brother; I have nothing with me,
brother.' The beggar raised his bloodshot eyes to mine; his blue lips
smiled, and he returned the pressure of my chilled fingers. 'Never
mind, brother,' stammered he; 'than