Never till that night had he realized the full value of that life of patient self-sacrifice, so unconscious of its heroism.

He understood then, as never before, the mysterious influence of that gentle, sweet-faced lady over every one who came to know her, from the simple, uncultured girls of the Indian Lands to the young men about town of Harry's type.

Hers was the power of one who sees with open eyes the unseen, and who loves to the forgetting of self those for whom the Infinite love poured Itself out in death.
"Going home, Harry ?" inquired Ranald.
"Yes, right home; don't want to go anywhere else to-night.

I say, old chap, you're a better and cleaner man than I am, but it ain't your fault.

That woman ought to make a saint out of any man." "Man, you would say so if you knew her," said Ranald, with a touch of impatience; "but then no one does know her.