If I were to write a volume, I could throw no clearer light on the inner life of my brother than shines out of this short, simple prayer, written for village boys, and repeated with them week by week. Nor is there any other picture of him that I would rather leave on your minds than this. When I think of the help and strength which he has been to me and many more, the noble lines on All Saints’ Day, of the poet I have already quoted in this memoir, seem to be haunting me, and with them I will end.
“Such lived not in the past alone,
But thread to-day the unheeding street,
And stairs to sin and sorrow known
Sing to the welcome of their feet.
“The den they enter glows a shrine,
The grimy sash an oriel burns,
Their cup of water warms like wine,
Their speech is filled from heavenly urns.
“Around their brows to me appears