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But it’s as much as my life’s worth to say that before David; he’s such a stick; but I guess you know that by this time,” with a laugh, as he had never heard from her before so unconstrained; at the same time drawing nearer to him and looking merrily into his face. “The little lady’s been having a ‘toddy’ at Morico’s, that makes her lively,” thought Grégoire.

You’re to have the copra, and I’m to go to the devil and shake myself. And I don’t know any native, and you’re the only man here worth mention that speaks English, and you have the gall to up and hint to me my life’s in danger, and all you’ve got to tell me is you don’t know why!” “Well, it is all I have to tell you,” said he. “I don’t know—I wish I did.”

We know this; we have often been warned of the danger; too many sad experiences and breathless escapes have convinced us of the sundry perils to soul and body that lie along the way of life. But we, like senseless, erring sheep, if bereft of the Shepherd’s guiding care, do not learn, in life’s sad school, the way to keep free from harm.

The fate of a Russian author was, indeed, a very sad affair. “In all lands have the writers drunk of life’s cup of bitterness, have they been bruised by life’s sharp corners and torn by life’s pointed thorns. Chill penury, public neglect, and ill health have been the lot of many an author in countries other than Russia.

The victory, the happy issue of life’s struggle, “is not of him that willeth, nor of him that runneth, but of God that sheweth mercy.” All may run, all may strive, indeed, for the prize of eternal life, but none can be sure, short of the mercy of God, that he will be saved; none can merit this crowning glory of life.

Stephenson said, “he was sure they would appreciate his feelings when he told them, that when he first began railway business his hair was black, although it was now grey; and that he began his life’s labour as but a poor ploughboy. About thirty years since, he had applied himself to the study of how to generate high velocities by mechanical means.

There’s Ceres, too; Pomona; the Muses; Astarte, too, as they call her here; all good;—and Apollo, though he’s somewhat too hot in this season, and too free with his bow. He gave me a bad fever once. Ah! life’s precious, most precious; so I felt it then, when I was all but gone to Pluto. Life never returns, it’s like water spilt; you can’t gather it up.

And it is chiefly these wounds of our nature, in ourselves and in others, that render life’s journey, even when pursued in accordance with the law of God, at times truly difficult and perilous. Fidelity to God and to His law is not always a safeguard against the wickedness of the world and of men; at times, in fact, it is just the contrary.

His pride will teach him that it’s useless for him to repine at life’s being a moment, and he will love his brother without need of reward. Love will be sufficient only for a moment of life, but the very consciousness of its momentariness will intensify its fire, which now is dissipated in dreams of eternal love beyond the grave’... and so on and so on in the same style. Charming!”

The same afternoon that the message so dreadful came to me grandmother visited a neighbor who was drawing near to his life’s sunset. When she came back, she told what passed while she was there. The man was a skeptic. There was no life beyond the grave for him. There was no hope of reunion around the throne of God. Grandmother spoke to him of his approaching end and asked him if he was prepared.