Think of him in his Missionary work. I do not mean in parochial missions, such as you have just been having—I mean in his warm love for that grand institution, the Church Missionary Society. Were there ever known such Bible and Missionary meetings as those in his schoolroom? What a holy enthusiasm did he kindle amongst us! What a glow there was all around him! The dullest hearts could not fail to catch his fire. How he knew the history of each box! He could not see the records because of his blindness, but he knew all about the boxes and their possessors; and it was impossible to be apathetic in his presence. And what was the secret of it all? How was it brought about? How was this fire kindled—this enthusiasm? Was it not that he was a man of prayer? I remember the last meeting I was at in Brenchley. Just before we left the Vicarage we knelt together in his study, and there he poured out his whole soul before God, and pleaded for that blessing which he found awaiting him when we reached the schoolroom. There was the secret of his power, and there it was that he learned that even in his loss of eyesight God’s grace was sufficient for his need. Then think of him in the Church. What a wonderful thing to have seen that man, totally blind, standing at the Communion Table only last Ash Wednesday, and going through the service with the Epistle and Gospel as well as those who have their full vision. It was a grand thing to see the blind man not reading the prayers but repeating them. He had loved those prayers throughout his ministry; he had prayed them all through the days of his eyesight, and they had become so completely a part of himself that, when his eyesight was gone, the prayers remained written both on his memory and soul; so that instead of sight he had memory, and instead of his prayer-book he made use of the fleshy tables of the heart. That is the way to pray.