And as the suspicion grows upon him that he may not be the “one and only” child of God, he cries out wildly in these modern days for evidence. He tries to bring spirits back from the dead that they may offer him some proof. He quests vainly for “revelations” that may satisfy him. He says with his mouth, “Yes; I believe absolutely in God,” yet, in his heart, he knows that he is half lying,--because of fear of what his neighbor will think if he speaks the truth. He wants to believe there is a God. He wants to _know_ there is a God. Yet he is afraid. And, personally, I am glad that the time has come when he is afraid. I think it is the real beginning of his salvation and the dropping-away of his egoism. To-day he is beginning to see all life as he did not see it yesterday. And to-morrow his eyes will be wide open. That is my faith. I believe that God is greater than humanity has ever conceived him to be. I think he is “a common sort of fellow,” and I write these words with all the holy reverence of which the soul is capable. I do not mean to imply that I think he is in my form, or in any particular form. But he is Life. And it is his intention and his desire that every living thing that is worthy of life be a part of him. I am almost Indian in this faith. I can hear the buoyant, cheering call of Life in a waterfall. The inspiration of it comes into my own body from out of a whispering tree, from a bush glowing with bloom, from a flower, from the song of a bird, from the rain itself. I find great peace and contentment in my faith that this God is everywhere, and that we may meet him face to face fifty times a day if we throw off the hard shell of our egoism, and realize that all nature is God--and that we, as men and women and children, are a part of that all-embracing nature. Even now the sun is filtering through the tree-branches upon this partly written page. I look at it, and I see again the inconceivable greatness of the Supreme Power, and my own microscopic littleness. For we of the earth have thought that the earth is great, and that we, having inherited the earth, are of all things greatest. Yet is that sun which warms and lights my page as I write--more than a million times as large as the earth--more than eight hundred thousand miles from one end of its diameter to the other. And the still more stupendous fact is that this sun is itself only a small bit of mechanism in the mighty forces of infinity, for there are a _hundred million other suns in space_, each lighting and warming its own worlds--innumerable worlds--each peopled with its own type of flesh and blood, and each possessing, perhaps, its own peculiar forms of “civilization” and its own savagery. Just that great, and vast, and all-embracing is the handiwork of that vital force which rules all infinity--and to which we have given the name of God.