nd. There is a great deal of activity that
seems inseparable from dust. The wheels make such a lot of noise as they
go around. _Doing_ that does not root down in the secret touch with
Jesus, may be quite vigorous for a time, but soon leaves behind as its
only memory withered up branches. This is a _practical_ age, we are
constantly told. Things must be judged by the standard of usefulness. That
is surely true, and good, but there is very serious danger that the true
perspective of service be lost in the dust that is being raised.

The imprint of this disproportion or lack of proportion can even be found
in the theological teaching of long ago and now. At one time religion was
defined as having to do with a man's relation to God. That was emphasized
to the utter hiding away of all else. In our own day the swing is clear
over to the other side. Definitions of religion that make everything of
helping one's brother and fellow, are the popular thing. There seems to be
a sort of astigmatism that keeps us from seeing things straight. Though
always there have been those that saw straight and lived truly.

Mark keenly that true touch with God always brings the longing to be pure,
and the loving of one's fellow. The nearer one gets to God the nearer will
he find himself getting to men. Often we find ourselves getting new
wonderful glimpses of God as we are eagerly helping somebody. Up seems to
include out, as though the line that drew us up to God led through men.
Yet with that always goes the other fact that touch with God makes one
long to be alone with Him.

There are always the three turnings of a true life, upward, inward,
outward. Upward to God, inward to self, outward to the world. The more one
knows God the keener is the longing to get off with Himself alone, the
deeper is the yearning to be pure, and the stronger is the passion to help
others regardless of any sacrifice involved.

A Long Time Coming.

There is an old story that caught fire in my heart the first time it came
to me, and burns anew at each memory of it. It told of a time in the
southern part of our country when the sanitary regulations were not so
good as of late. A city was being scourged by a disease that seemed quite
beyond control. The city's carts were ever rolling over the cobble-stones,
helping carry away those whom the plague had slain.

Into one very poor home, a laboring man's home, the plague had come. And
the father and children had b