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might scoff; the wife believed.

She was no Sarah

to laugh at the angel of the Lord. What wonder, then, they were sweethearts still at threescore and ten?

So the wife of Thomas Carlyle, the woman with the brave blood of John old Knox coursing through her heart, upheld her husband through all weathers, proud of his strength, tender of his weakness, and never saying, "Thomas, pray do write so that people can understand you." His wild, weird words might puzzle her brain, but they were simple Saxon to her heart; and so when she died he had graven on her tomb, For forty years she was the true and loving helpmate of her husband, and unweariedly forwarded him as none else could in all of worthy that he did or attempted."

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And so this is a prayer we can all make to God on our wedding-day, and, if we will, on any day and every day after, and always find the answer in the cry. Is there danger that we shall make it hard for Heaven to answer us in the tale of the years, because we are using them up like a candle lighted at both ends? we can guard against that. Is there danger that while we may grow aged together in years, there still may be such a fatal difference of spirit and purpose that at threescore and ten we may merely be two old people who have found each other out, and in our knowledge have made shipwreck of our love? we can guard against that.

No man and woman ever cried out with their whole heart, "Mercifully ordain that we may grow aged together," who did not find well-springs in their dryest deserts, gleams of sunlight stealing through their darkest shadows, an arm of power for their most appalling steeps, and sunny resting-places all the way.

I think the average novel is making sad mischief in the average mind in its pictures of true love. It makes the tender glow and glamour which related natures feel when they meet, true love. It is no such thing: it is true passion, that is all; a blessed power purely and rightly used, but no more true love than those little hooks and tendrils we see in June, on a shooting vine, are the ripe clusters of October. For true love grows out of reverence and deference, loyalty and courtesy, good service given and taken, dark days and bright days, sorrow and joy. It is the fine essence of all we are together, and all we do. True passion comes "It is sown a natural body, it is raised a spiritual body;" and so it is written, "The first man is of the earth earthy, but the second man is the Lord from heaven."

first, true love last.

SOFTLY.

"The children are tender: I will lead on softly."

JACOB TO ESAU

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