-discipline in our life at Cambridge, and we should have more power
over others. Pray for me. . . .

You needn't pity me. I am having a very good time. It is jolly to do
nothing, and not even to have to dress and undress--both exhausting and
monotonous occupations. It has been a glorious day, and although it is
almost 7 P.M., I am still out on the balcony enjoying the cool breezes.

{188}

_To W. O._

Alassio; December 1903.

Death has come near to my family lately. I told you that my sister--the
Deaconess--had passed away from us.[1] It is not all sorrow, when we
know that the life has been spent in walking with God, when we know that
this corruptible puts on incorruption, and that what is sown in intense
bodily weakness is raised in strength--eternal strength.

I am so glad that God has given to you His highest blessing. I long to
meet your future wife. It makes me very happy to think of the happiness
in store for you--to know that you are in the best of all schools. I
thank God. Love will bring you both nearer to the source of Love. . . .
This new blessing, as you say, is 'the gathering up of the best that God
gives.' I can't express my thoughts as I would, but I am very, very
glad. . . .

Illness teaches one many lessons. I trust I have learned some. I have
been amazed at the goodness of my friends!

[1] His sister, Deaconess Cecilia, 'passed away' at the Deanery,
Westminster, on September 8.

_To W. P., an officer in the Army._

Hotel Salisbury, Alassio, Italy: December 21, 1903.

I don't think things happen by chance. Indeed I am sure they do not. I
have never felt so humbled to the earth. One sees one's life as a whole,
when one is helpless and can do nothing, and the whole looks very poor
and mean. It is like the {189} judgment-day--only with this grand
exception, that life is not yet over, that the night has not yet come in
which 'no man can work,' that you have still a chance to make the future
better, more honest, more noble than the past. Then, again, I learnt the
utter and wonderful kindness of my friends. I felt so selfish and so
surprised at the goodness they showed me. Again, I saw something of the
mystery of pain. My own was so trivial compared with that which some
others had to bear. Yet I had enough to startle me that such a fact
should be permitted on earth at all. I don't suppose we can understand
its meaning; but my consolation was that it is not necessar