Lose no time. Do as I did. Go to God, in your secret closet. Lay all your troubles and problems at his feet. Throw yourself on his loving mercy. Confess your backsliding, your sins, your errors, your weaknesses, everything--everything that is causing you, your husband, and your children to be held by the enemy of souls, and that will soon bring more misery into your life and their lives, unless God undertakes for you and them. Then, cost what it will, take the humble place before God and them. Tell them of your love for them; of the mistakes you have made, through false modesty, in not gaining their companionship, their confidence. Ask them to help you in the future by trusting you more than they do any other friend or acquaintance. Tell them how much you once loved God, and that now, after wandering far away, you have returned to him. Go with them to Sunday-school and to other religious services; set up, even in the face of all opposition, the family altar; ask a blessing at table; have an open Bible always. The outcome. Probably at first, and maybe for some time to come, rebellion, even desertion, even more sin to battle with; more heartaches, more tears, more struggles than ever heretofore. But "_be thou faithful_." Thy loyalty, thine efforts, shall be rewarded. Watch, wait, pray always. There is only one reason to be given why the children go wrong--_Godless homes_. "Train up a child in the way he should go; and when he is old, he will _not_ depart from it." Prov. 22:6. One day a clergyman handed me two very startling verses, the characters of which were all too true. I remarked that some day, God willing, I would add to the verses and set them to music. I have done so, and in His name, I herewith give them, under the awful title: WANTED, RECRUITS FOR HELL. Johnson the drunkard is dying today, With traces of sin on his face; He will be missed at the bar, at the play. Wanted, a boy for his place. Ruby, poor Ruby is passing away, A victim of vice and disgrace. Wanted, recruits for the houses of shame, Some mother's girl for her place. Simons, a gambler, was killed in a fight; He died without pardon or grace. Wanted, to train for his burden and blight, Somebody's boy for his place. Wanted for dance-halls, for brothels, for bars, Girls attractive of form and of face, Girls to decoy and boys to destroy; Have you a child for the place? "Wanted," pleads Satan, "for service of mine, Some one to live without grace, Some one to die without pardon divine; Please train me your child for the place." That eminent writer, Mrs. Ella Wheeler Wilcox, says: "Every person on earth is making some sort of a cell in his or her brain every waking moment of the day or night.