"Red Cross of Geneva;" and in the great day of reward, He who bore the
cross for us all will place upon Clara Barton the crown of eternal
life.

When my wife was president of the House of Mercy, in Lexington,
Kentucky, a home for the rescue of fallen girls, she went in her
carriage to a dentist with one of the unfortunate inmates.

Soon after a business man of the city said to me: "I hardly see how
you can give your consent to have your wife do such work. I saw her
recently in her carriage with a girl I would not have my wife seen
with for any amount of money."

My reply was: "I would rather my wife should go through the golden
gates, bearing in her arms the spirit of a poor girl, snatched from
the hell of a harlot's home, than to be the leader of the fashionable
four hundred of New York City."

There is a beautiful story told of one of the most influential and
wealthy men of England. He inherited fame as well as fortune, had an
Oxford education and early in life he was elected a member of
Parliament. One evening he sat in his fine library, watching the wood
fire build its temples of flame around the great andirons, and as he
heard the beating of the wild winter storm against the window pane,
his heart went out to the homeless hungry poor of the city. Ordering
his carriage he went to the city mission and asked for a helper, and
then drove to London Bridge, under the shelter of which the penniless
poor gather in time of storms. He took them two by two to shelter,
gave them food, and cots on which to sleep, and then returned to his
princely home. We are told that for years after, when Parliament would