When he says this with so much earnestness, we always feel that his prayers are a rare treasure, since the helpless, self-renouncing prayers are most prevalent in Christ. The tenderness with which William speaks of his sister's family has sometimes touched me. There is nothing like the peace of God to beget good will to man. Knowing that the family had many trials with his sister's ill health and scanty means, he often sends by me messages of sympathy. A few days since it was suddenly discovered that their youngest child, two years old, and a little pet of William's, was in danger of being crippled for life. This new and unexpected sorrow filled the family with great distress. I accompanied the father when the child was brought to St. Luke's for examination. After the physician's opinion had been given, and arrangements made for placing it in the Children's Ward, we went to see William. The unexpected appearance of his brother-in-law, whom he had not seen since coming to the hospital, affected him much. Indeed, the interview was trying to both. I left them alone, and on my return shortly afterward, found William still in tears. He was not so well that morning, and grief for the child, and the sight of the brother reviving the painful memory of their late alienation, was too much for him; yet his peace was not greatly disturbed, for all alienation from man, as from God, had been healed for him. _The Tried Word._--I went to see the little child the next morning, and then reported him to his uncle, whose first words were a question, rather anxiously put, concerning the little one. Wishing to set his mind at ease, I said: "Oh, it is all well with him. I just met him coming down, stairs with a flock of children, and his hands full of bread and butter." He gave a smile of quiet amusement, which showed the playfulness of other days might yet be touched. I then went on to tell him the case was not likely to prove as serious as we had feared, and suggested he should get the nurse, when convenient, to bring the child in her arms to his bedside. He was pleased with the idea; but presently the conversation fell off from the subject. William's eyes wandered to the texts of the "Silent Comforter" at the foot of his bed. With the air of one who caught the sight of unutterable things, and has not much more to do with the world: "See," said he, "I have a good verse for this morning." He began to read: "Fear not, I am with thee." Beginning to cough, I went on: "When thou walkest through the waters, they shall not overflow thee; and through the fire, thou shalt not be burned. That is just right for you, William." "Yes," he replied, with his own peculiarly beautiful smile. "I notice," said I, "that the very words of God are best for you. You love the hymns, but, after all, God's own words are the safest to rest upon." "Yes," he replied, "I live upon those texts. When the nurse comes in, in the morning, to turn the leaf over, _I am eager_."