it has ever been lost. It is simply transferred from one person to
another. Sometimes it takes a different form, and becomes a deed, which,
at first, may not look as if it were made of love, but, in reality, is.

"Love blossoms in flowers, sings in moving waters, fills the forest with
birds, and makes all the wonderful music of Spring. It puts the colour
upon the robin's breast, scents the orchard with far-reaching drifts of
bloom, and scatters the pink and white petals over the grass beneath.
Through love the flower changes to fruit, and the birds sing lullabies
at twilight instead of mating songs.

"It is at the root of everything good in all the world, and where things
are wrong, it is only because sometime, somewhere, there has not been
enough love. The balance has been uneven and some have had too much
while others were starving for it. As the lack of food stunts the body,
so the denial of love warps the soul.

"But God has made it so that love given must unfailingly come back an
hundred-fold; the more we give, the richer we are. And Heaven is only a
place where the things that have gone wrong here will at last come
right. Is it not so, Barbara?"

"Surely, Daddy."

"Then," he continued, anxiously, "all my loving must come back to me
sometime, somewhere. I think it will be right, for God Himself is Love."

The blind man's sensitive fingers lovingly sought Barbara's face. His
touch was a caress. "I am sure you are like your dear mother," he said,
softly. "If I could know that she died loving me, and if I could see her