He read the first line to show which he meant. I had long thought, and still think, it the most beautiful hymn I know. It was taken from the German, only much improved in the taking, and given to my father to do what he pleased with; and my father had given it to another friend for his collection. Before that, however, while still in manuscript, it had fallen into the hands of a certain clergyman, by whom it had been published without leave asked, or apology made: a rudeness of which neither my father nor the author would have complained, for it was a pleasure to think it might thus reach many to whom it would be helpful; but they both felt aggrieved and indignant that he had taken the dishonest liberty of altering certain lines of it to suit his own opinions. As I am anxious to give it all the publicity I can, from pure delight in it, and love to all who are capable of the same delight, I shall here communicate it, in the full confidence of thus establishing a claim on the gratitude of my readers. O Lord, how happy is the time When in thy love I rest! When from my weariness I climb Even to thy tender breast! The night of sorrow endeth there: Thou art brighter than the sun; And in thy pardon and thy care The heaven of heaven is won. Let the world call herself my foe, Or let the world allure. I care not for the world: I go To this dear Friend and sure. And when life's fiercest storms are sent Upon life's wildest sea, My little bark is confident, Because it holds by thee. When the law threatens endless death Upon the awful hill, Straightway from her consuming breath My soul goes higher still,-- Goeth to Jesus, wounded, slain, And maketh him her home, Whence she will not go out again, And where death cannot come. I do not fear the wilderness Where thou hast been before; Nay, rather will I daily press After thee, near thee, more. Thou art my food; on thee I lean; Thou makest my heart sing; And to thy heavenly pastures green All thy dear flock dost bring. And if the gate that opens there Be dark to other men, It is not dark to those who share The heart of Jesus then. That is not losing much of life Which is not losing thee, Who art as present in the strife As in the victory. Therefore how happy is the time When in thy love I rest! When from my weariness I climb Even to thy tender breast! The night of sorrow endeth there: Thou are brighter than the sun; And in thy pardon and thy care The heaven of heaven is won. In telling them a few of the facts connected with the hymn, I presume I had manifested my admiration of it with some degree of fervor. "Ah!" said Mrs. Cromwell, opening her eyes very wide, and letting the rising tears fill them: "Ah, Mrs. Percivale! you are--you must be one of us!" "You must tell me first who you are," I said.