Assurance was in her voice, and there was a note of triumphant certainty on the part of this humble daughter of toil that she was the King’s child, and therefore heir to all the promises made in the Bible. Billy Bray, the Cornish miner, had the same happy consciousness. Frequently he would exclaim, “I’m the King’s son!” The ability to rise above depressing circumstances is seen in this incident Before Worship A few had gathered at the Goodwill Chapel service fifteen minutes before the time to begin. The leader often allowed his audience to select the opening hymn. And these early comers were making their choices. “Here’s a hymn I like,” said one. “It’s ‘We’re Marching to Zion.’” “I like it, too,” said another, “but why do you like it?” “Well,” replied the first speaker, “there’s nothing uncertain about that hymn. It knows where it’s going. A person can stand a whole lot of hardship if she knows the end is worth it. Yes, I like that hymn. If Mr. Dawson asks us what we want to sing, this morning, I am going to ask for this one.” And so they talked happily among themselves. Others came in and took their seats, a motley company of depressed old age wearing the marks of poverty and sorrow. The leader entered and this time he gave out the hymn. “I don’t care. I like this just as well,” observed the one who had chosen “We’re Marching to Zion.” Well might she and the others, for it expressed faith and hope in the lines: “Be not dismayed whate’er betide, God will take care of you; Beneath his wings of love abide, God will take care of you.”[18] Thus encouraged they went from that service to the humdrum routine of daily drudgery. The power of the Gospel to reach those on the outskirts of civilization is evidenced When Lumberjacks Sang “Jesus, Lover of My Soul” Thomas D. Whittles tells of many an interesting incident in his book, _The Parish of the Pines_[19]—the story of Frank Higgins, the Lumberjacks’ Sky Pilot. One morning after breakfast the men went to the bunkhouse to wait for the word of the “push” ordering them to “the works.” While they waited a rich tenor struck up the hymn, “Jesus, Lover of my soul, Let me to Thy bosom fly!” One by one the men joined in and the solo passed into the chorus of a hundred voices. Out through the twilight the melody rolled, waking the sleeping pines, crossing the frozen lakes. The men in the stables, harnessing their horses, heard the song and softly whistled it; the cook, busy with the pots and pans, hummed it in unison and the swearing cookee closed his profane mouth and listened in astonished silence. Over in the office where the officials slept, the song caused silent amazement, for it was unlike the morning hour when oaths and curses break the stillness. “Other refuge have I none; Hangs my helpless soul on Thee.” sang the men, unconscious of aught save the song. “Leave, ah! leave me not alone”—