twenty members, and good substantial ones too. Tonight we are feeling that we have not been doing enough for our brethren outside, and I hope we may the rest of the term pray and labor more assiduously to interest them in missions. Dear Dean, by the time this letter reaches you, I shall be about leaving this sacred place, which has become endeared to me by so many precious associations. As I look back, how the thoughts do whirr around me. You and C. walking side by side around Indian Ridge; all those little meetings in C.'s room and that little company of 'believers.' Precious days they were, were n't they? And they are all gone, and days of equal joy since known will soon follow in their train. How the future does look; bright, yet not wholly so, for many a dark river must be crossed before we reach the end of our way. As I write these words, the remembrance of your calm, quiet confidence comes before me and really does refresh my mind. Yes, as I was saying to a dear missionary brother to-day who had met with a sad cross in his path, as we were walking back of the cemetery, here is the hill that I like to visit when despondent, for here one day C. talked with me, and said he feared his throat might prevent his going to India; and now he is there, fairly at work. Begone dull doubt and welcome faith. You in India. Capron too. Winchester in Turkey; but at home. Is it a year since I wrote you last! Another year would God I might write you from Madura!"

During these two years he was in the habit of spending Sunday at home, for the sake of his Swedish class and his neighborhood meeting. It was a new life in

the household when Saturday noon came and brought with it David, bustling with the glow of return, full of questions and anecdotes, and hurrying away after dinner to libraries and bookstores on his many errands. Monday morning he was off again with his bundles, returning to seminary with a similar eagerness, making everybody who came in contact with him partake of his good-natured cheeriness. I close this chapter, which I have intended chiefly to contain the testimony of his friends, with a letter from his classmate, Rev. J. M. Sturtevant, Jr., of Hannibal, Missouri, premising that it anticipates mention of a journey taken to the West, a year later:

"To me the most striking trait in David's character was his earnestness, and it was not only that earnestness of voice and manner, that enthusiasm about trifles which made him seem rough and eccentric to me when I first met him, but which afterward became one great charm of his society, he was in earnest about everything he turned his attention to, but not equally in earnest on all subjects. His feelings increased in depth while they grew more quiet in their manifestations as the theme rose in dignity. This peculiarity of his character made him an enigma to many. He seemed so full of life and enthusiasm on ordinary themes, and so quiet when the most sacred themes were touched, that few suspected the depth of his religious feelings. I can truly say that I never saw a man who had more of what Dr. Arnold calls moral earnestness. His morbid habit of introspection made him often distrust the sincerity of his own religious emotions, but no one who had an intimate acquaintance with him could doubt for a moment

that they were of the deepest and most fervent character. His intense individuality made direct personal appeal to others a hard undertaking for him. Perhaps most persons who have long been in the habit of thinking and judging for themselves find something of the same troubles. Personal appeal does not seem to them best calculated to be useful to them, and they doubt their power to make it useful to others. But while he shrank from it, he longed to seize this and all other means of promoting the kingdom of Christ. If any one had called at the room of a fellow-student for personal religious conversation and he knew it, no matter how late it was, he never would retire to rest until he had heard the result of the conversation.

"Perhaps my most vivid recollections of him cluster around two conversations. One occurred one Sabbath at Andover. There was quite a revival of religion in Phillips Academy. Our meetings all day had been full of interest; until very late I had an inquiry-meeting in my room to which God in his mercy had sent several members of my Bible-class to ask the way of life. At last quite exhausted I was left alone. In my sense of weariness and helplessness my thoughts turned at once to David. I seemed almost too tired to pray more, but I would go to his room, quite sure to find him still up, and he would calm me with one of his earnest, heartfelt prayers, and then I would return to my own room to sleep. Often had I felt amid the storms of a very uneven, a very inconsistent Christian life, that I would give everything to possess that simplicity and straightforwardness which so pervaded David's religion. Guess my surprise when, on my asking him to pray with me, he replied with a burst of emotion such as I had never

before known him to exhibit, I can't! you must pray for me.' And then he went on to lament his lack of sincere religious emotion, almost wishing that he had been a more wicked man that he might know greater heights and depths of religious feeling. His humility humbled me more than many reproofs could have done, and though he knew it not, he certainly was the best teacher for me that night.

"The other conversation was impressive chiefly for the circumstances under which it took place. I can hardly give you an idea of its details in this short compass. He was just about to leave me, after a short visit at this place, and we never expected to meet again in this world. We were walking upon the bold bluff just below the town, about two hundred feet above the river which ran at our feet. We talked of old times, pleasant scenes never to return, but bright in our memories as the sunshine of that fair summer day; and then our thoughts went forward into the future, and we laughed with almost boyish glee over some of his funny fancies as to what might be, and then we grew more sober as we thought of that world-wide separation, and talked of the mystery of that Providence which had destined us to such remote positions, and had probably appointed us equally dissimilar experiences. Then we talked of that eternity beyond, to which, by whatever path, we were both bound as surely as the waters at our feet were gliding toward the ocean. We reasoned thus until all our earthly life which, while we talked of its varied possibilities and all its depths of feeling, seemed like a great sea before us, was like the Mississippi at our feet, narrowed to our vision, by the height from which we looked, to a mere belt across the

landscape, and the heavenly land seemed as real and as near as the bluffs gleaming in the sunshine miles away across the river, where we could just catch on their summits the signs of an inhabited country, and on the very horizon, faintly drawn, the spires of a distant city. So we parted, but I never shall forget that glimpse of the heavenly land. The narrow belt was narrower for him than I thought; crossing the river and entering the city of God came sooner than I expected. I pray that even as we talked that morning we may meet ere long in that land whose rivers will not always make us think of death, and whose hills will dwell in everlasting sunshine."