farmstead almost mint new, and in the background a log house on the edge of the clearing, deserted and almost hidden in wild pines. There was only one human figure in the picture, the good man of the farmstead, leaning on a rail fence and looking at the log house with the light in his eyes, the tender light of the days that are dead. That was once his house, as I read the story, where he came long ago with his newly wedded wife to make a home, and there their children were born and raised; and the memories of the old home thronged in his heart as he leaned on the fence. So there was a touch of tender regret in our hearts I think, or know rather, when we were homed in the large and good new church. The old home, to be sure, was not deserted: it was bought and occupied by the Baptist society whose smaller church we rented for our first services; and my small boy was much interested when they put down what he called their bath tub. Yet it was still our old home where we "had such good times," while we were proud of the new one. That was all the heart could desire, with a much larger congregation, and all the room we wanted for every purpose. Yet, as I sit here this morning, I see the first home in the tender

light of the days that are dead, not with sorrow, but with thanksgiving, for the good times in the span of the ten years.

Two good and fruitful years were given us in the new church, in which I for one certainly began to feel very much at home, and then the great calamity fell on our city when the church and the homes were whelmed in the common ruin. This memory I must touch at a later time.

XXIV

My dear old friend, the editor, says, in a note that came the other day, "I have not wanted to remind you of the memories I promised our readers should be completed when you struck work last spring, and we shall be glad to begin again when you are ready."

It was a true and timely word, subject to a slight correction. Paul says, a man who desires to be a bishop should be "no striker," and herein I plead not guilty. The truth is I was tired and wanted to take a vacation, quite intending to finish them in the fall or the early winter. But in the fall the spirit did not move meeditor will know what I mean

my

or they did not seem ripe for the reaping. So, like the men in the parable, I began to make excuses; and my failure, with many more in all these years, must be counted once more among the good intentions that I love to imagine pave the way to heaven.

I notice, as you may perhaps remember who read the twenty-three chapters, that we had

begun to feel at home in the brave new church, too large as yet for our need, but not for our hope and our fine ambition, while we still loved to remember the little church on the corner in which we met for worship and work about nine years. The Baptist society had bought the dear old place, and this was all to the good for me, because my mother was a Baptist, and would be glad to hear of this. And I had said to our people, when the place became too strait for us, when we have no more room to grow, we shall begin to grow stunted.

Well, there was no danger now in that direction. And then I remembered what my mother would say to our tailor when he came to measure me for a new suit: "Make it big, John: give him plenty of room to grow into the things. He will be sure to outgrow them before he has another suit." And this was true, for I was a lusty fellow; but for what you would call a good fit, when I donned them, they were a sight to see, and sadly discounted the joy and pride of the Easter Sunday when we went to the old mother church two miles away where we were all baptized. The church in which Edward Fairfax, the uncle of the great general, and who made the first and still the best translation

of the "Jerusalem Delivered," was buried in 1635" under a marble tomb," and who in 1620 fell into sore trouble touching the witchcraft done on his daughter, of which he wrote the story I may tell in brief when I have finished these memories.

I told the story of the garments in some speech or sermon to the people for a parable, wherewith they were well pleased when I made the application; for we all love parables which encourage the hope that is not seen, and mine came true. The big church was well filled in the first year: the Sunday-school also prospered finely. There was ample room for our social gatherings, and then in the early spring of 1871 there came a great wonder. I was invited to preach the sermon at the annual meeting of the British and Foreign Unitarian Association in London.

I could not have dreamed of so great an honor had I been a dreamer, and I did not let I dare not wait upon I would, when I read the letter; for my impulse was to say no in the cleanest words I could muster, and thank them with all my heart. But now the dear helpmeet, who was always my very present help in trouble, wheeled promptly into line, after we had held the home