He only takes away the ones we love if, in His all wise love, He sees He must. If we accept the atonement that He made, and love Him, and are dutiful to Him about the ones He takes. He will always give instead that incomparably more lovely, priceless, perfect, altogether lovely one—Himself. And now this funny old book is finished. As I write the words my room grows dark, because the sun is hidden for a moment by a cloud of rain. Yet all the tender plants out in the woods will be the stronger for the storm, when it has passed. I look into the future, and I see that there remains for me one last ’experience.’ Some day, perhaps when I am very old, I shall walk down a valley shadowed with dark wings. Beside me will be one—that mighty one—whose face is cold and quiet, majestic and inexorable. I shall not fear him as the darkness deepens in that vale, for all around, by reason of the Passion of my Lord, there will be a song of triumph sung:— ’Oh death! where is thy sting? And where thy victory?’ And at the end of that dark night I, too, shall find the morning. I shall greet Ross again. I shall see mother, and the others who have gone before. I shall in one ecstatic moment, find myself—’linked up’ with God. LONDON AND GLASGOW: COLLINS’ CLEAR-TYPE PRESS.