Could her pastor have expected her to spend the hours of her first journey alone in reading them all? Ah, no; here was one, marked in different colored ink, and on the upper margin of the page was her own name, "Elsie." This, then, was the portion meant for her. (Not a lengthy passage; she could accomplish so much with a fair hope of remembering it.) And she read, "It may seem an odd idea, but a simple glance at one's hand, with the recollection, this hand is not mine; it has been given to Jesus, and it must be kept for Jesus,' may sometimes turn the scale in a doubtful matter, and be a safeguard from certain temptations. With that thought fresh in your mind, as you look at your hand, can you let it take up things, which, to say the least, are not 'for Jesus'? Things which evidently cannot be used, as they most certainly are not used, either for Him or by Him. Can you deliberately hold in it books of a kind which you know perfectly well, by sadly-repeated experience, lead you farther from, instead of nearer to Him? . . . Books which you would not care to read at all, if your heart were burning within you at the coming of His feet? Next time any temptation of this sort approaches you just look at your hand." Elsie Burton paused in her reading and looked down at her hand, a singular expression on her face. Given to Christ! Certainly it was true of her; she had given herself to Him and promised to be His disciple; yet never until this moment had occurred to her that even her hands actually belonged to this Master. What a strange idea! How singular it would be for one to stop and think whether her hands were doing what He would have them? Yet, why not? If they really were given to Him, what more reasonable than that they should be kept for His service? Would that make any difference with the work of her hands, she wondered, supposing she had thought of them in this light before? Such dainty care as she had taken of them! Had she possibly soiled them in His sight? There were other marked bits in this strange little book, her name attached; she read on: "Danger and temptation to let the hands move at other impulses is every bit as great to those who have nothing else to do but to render service: and who think they are doing nothing else. Take one practical instance—our letter writing. Have we not been tempted (and fallen before the temptation), according to our various dispositions, to let the hand that holds the pen move at the impulse to write an unkind thought of another; or to say a clever and sarcastic thing, which will make our point more telling; or to let out a grumble or a suspicion; or to let the pen run away with us into flippant words?"