CHAPTER XL.
MORNING CLOUDS.
"Waft, waft, ye winds, His story;
And you, ye waters, roll,
Till like a sea of glory
It spreads from pole to pole;
Till o'er our ransomed nature
The Lamb for sinners slain,
Redeemer, King, Creator,
In bliss returns to reign."
BRIGHT days followed for Clémence and Ivan—days of noble striving and endeavour, of "taking root downwards" in thought and experience, and of "bearing fruit upwards" in loving helpful toil for others. Their little Rosebud was not forgotten. The baby guest whose visit was so brief that it seemed to come and go like a dream left an abiding blessing behind her. Heaven looked nearer and more real to the parents whose treasure was there already; and labour felt more sweet for Him who had her in his keeping. Thenceforward the tender, introspective spirit of Clémence grew more and more into the glad undoubting faith of Ivan. Nor did the little cot remain empty; for God sent them other gifts—in the course of the next three years two baby boys came to gladden their home.
Meanwhile the stirrings of new life seemed to pervade ever more and more the land in which they lived. It was something like what the early Reformation era had been in the elder lands of Europe. Nor was it only the rich and great who
