God’s quiet snow, I think, that succeeds all the Spring and Summer excitements, and ecstasies, and heats of life, is just that _peace of God which passeth all understanding_ sent down to keep our heart and mind, that its life be not destroyed nor its aspirations all cut off, but that it may be folded over warm and safe until the Resurrection, that Spring time, better than earth’s Springs, which do but reform perishable buds and leaves; a Spring which shall know no November, no Winter days; a Spring which shall no doubt revive and recover every feeling, and thought, and love, and aspiration which was really God-given and beautiful, and shall make those blighted hopes bright with the blossom of unearthly beauty, and shall bend the bare boughs of those unquiet inexpressible yearnings low towards Him with the abundant fruit of satisfaction. “Brighter, fairer far than living, With no trace of change or stain, Robed in everlasting beauty, Shall we see them once again.” I think the contemplation a little way off, of any sorrow or bereavement, bears out what I have said concerning the _anticipation_ of Winter being really the worst and most cheerless time--a time when only the chill, and the death, and the dreariness is in our thoughts, and we do not suspect the strange beauties that will accompany it, nor the warm glow that is hidden in its heart. We only see the trouble coming, and we know not, until the time of need is even with us, of the consolation, and the support, and the spiritual loveliness that are coming too; coming with the silent step of the snow, or the unseen breath of the frost, to adorn thoughts, and feelings, and character with a fringe and foliage of heavenly beauty; coming with a glow of consolation, like Christmas in the heart of Winter--the warm fire of God’s love, which can keep out earth’s sharpest and most piercing cold. So that when the Winter has really come, and we look out on the soft snow of God’s peace, and creep closer to the fire of God’s love, we find that even the sharpest Winter days are not so terrible as November painted them; and, revolving and realising their beauty and their use, we can enter into his feelings who said, “It is good for me that I have been afflicted”; and say Amen with quiet grateful hearts to those once inexplicable words, “Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted.” * * * * *