hildren watching her with intense
interest, waiting for her to open the door and bring forth things which
are old, such as nicely-frosted doughnuts, and things which are new,
such as jelly and pie. That cupboard is a place of mystery to the
children, and the mother has the key to the treasure: Do you follow me?"

"Certainly," Douglas replied.

"Well, then, that cupboard is the Bible; the clergyman is the steward
who is supposed to have the key, and his people are the children. They
are looking to him to bring forth the things new and old for their
good. But as far as I can find, he generally brings forth the same old
things Sunday after Sunday which have become so stale that people do
not care for them."

"Do all do that?" Douglas asked, mentally going over several of his
sermons.

"Oh, no, not all. But the sermons I have heard since coming to this
parish, and others which have been reported to me, have been of that
kind. There was no life, nothing personal, and not one new and
striking thought upon any great subject. They were just the same old
platitudes about the Fathers, the doctrine of the Church, the duty of
people to attend the services, and to give. There has been no food for
longing, hungry souls."

"Such teaching is necessary, is it not?" Douglas queried.

"I do not deny that at all. But it is poor food to satisfy the soul,
especially when it is served at every meal. The trouble is that so
many young men leave college with stereotyped ideas. They are parrots
and repeat what they have been taught, and nothing else."

Douglas winced a little at these words, for he knew how well they
applied to himself. But he was beginning to see life in a new light
since he had become plain John Handyman.

"We need a man who has seen and experienced life," the professor
continued, "and can convert the great thoughts of the Bible into living
food for hungry, troubled and tempted souls. I wish every clergyman
would take a page from the life of the little bee. People as a rule
think that it gets the honey right from the flower. They are mistaken.
All it gets is a little sweet water. But it takes that water, retires,
adds something to it from itself, and by a process of its own makes it
into honey."

"Isn't that funny!" Nan exclaimed. "Why I always thought the bees
carried the honey on their legs and scraped it off when they got home.
Didn't you think so, Nell?"

"I confess I did," was the laughing repl