"It is undoubtedly true that you are sometimes called upon to make sacrifices in your work of love. You sometimes feel that you are making sacrifices. It may be comparatively so; but really, if you look at it as it is, you will find it no very great sacrifice. Here are our brethren who have left their homes and friends, who have gone among strangers and heathens. We have heard the story of their deprivations, of their labors, of their sorrows, of their chains, and of their imprisonment. Many of them mourn over departed happiness; many of them have fallen in the great work, and now sleep in heathen lands; many of them have gone down to the bottom of the great deep, where the seaweed is their winding sheet, the coral their only tombstone. One sleeps in Helena till the sound of the last trumpet arouse her; and when she comes up she will be attended by a retinue ten thousand times more pompous and more splendid than ever surrounded the maddened emperor who had his grave in that island. His tomb was there, and after a few years, when it was opened, his military dress was wrapped around him as when he was laid there; but the star upon his bosom, the emblem of his glory, the pride of his life,--it was corroded and black, a true representation of human glory, of the glory of a conqueror and an imperial murderer. But when the grave shall open, and that loved sister Judson shall come forth, there will be no corroded stars over that heart. But those who are there, as I said before, have certainly made sacrifices compared with us, with the brethren and friends they left behind; but when they look in another direction, when they turn their eyes to the great field, they feel fully compensated. They may live upon rice and milk, and often not have enough of that. Their frail tenements are broken down by the storms; and they are exposed to the roaming tigers, who may spring upon and rush through the thin walls of their habitations. They may be imprisoned for a while and racked by the chains of tyranny. Yet never have they been compelled to exclaim, as did that Savior who came to his own and his own received him not, when a Pharisee proposed to be his follower, 'The birds of the air have nests and the foxes have holes; but the Son of man hath not where to lay his head.' Think of that, ye heralds of the cross,--think of that, brethren in foreign lands,--the Being who made the world, while here in the flesh, declaring that the birds which he had made had nests, and the foxes he had created had holes, where they could rest and sleep in security, but no place on this earth he had made where he could quietly lay that majestic, godlike head! Sometimes you feel as though your friends had forsaken you. Go to Gethsemane; see there that Master who but a short time before, with the twelve surrounding the table, had told them of the approaching trials and dangers: urged to rashness, the unthinking Peter had