IN a room in a stately mansion, a little babe lay in its mother's arms. All kinds of beautiful things were around, and many people passed in and out. Pictures by the first Masters were on the walls; the rarest exotics filled the air with choice perfumes. The chair in which the mother sat was gilded and tapestried; the carpet her feet rested on was soft as mossy turf, and delicate as embroidery. Jewels sparkled on her dress. * Suggested by a passage in Sartorius' "Lehre von der heiligen Liebe," contrasting the world of a cold philosophy, "Ich and Nicht Ich," with the Christian's world, "Ich und Du." The windows opened on a magnificent landscape, of park and lake, woodland and distant hills. But the little babe saw nothing but its mother's smile—understood nothing, but that it was on its mother's knee. Its only consciousness was "Thou and I!" and love. * * * * The railway train was entering a long tunnel. The babe was still on its mother's knee. The darkness grew deeper. The heavy train thundered through the hollow earth. Another met it, and rushed past with a deafening din. An older child in the carriage screamed with terror. Many of the passengers felt uneasy, and were impatient to see the light again. But the baby cared nothing for the noise or the darkness. It looked in the dim lamp-light into its mother's face, and saw her smile, and smiled again. It knew nothing of the world but "Thou and I!" and love. * * * * The ship was tossing fearfully on the stormy sea. Every timber strained, every wave seemed as if it must engulph the vessel. The weak and timid cried out in an agony of fear. The brave and loving moved about with white, compressed lips, and contracted brows, striving now and then to say some brief reassuring words to those for whose safety they feared. But the babe lay tranquil and happy in its mother's arms. Her breast was to it a shelter against the world. It knew nothing of danger or fear. Its world was "Thou and I!" and love. * * * * Years passed away, and the baby grew into a child, and the child into a man. His life was one of many vicissitudes, of passionate hopes, and bitter sorrows, and wild ambition. He worshipped the world in many forms, and wandered farther and farther from the Father's house, until the world which first had beguiled him with its choicest things, came to feed him on its husks. And a long way off, he thought of the Father and the home, and rose to return. His steps were doubtful and slow, but the heart which met him had no hesitation and no upbraidings. Then the wanderer understood the love with which he had been watched and pitied all those desolate years, the love with which he was welcomed now.