* * * * *

For a long time, for many weeks and months, the parable of the foolish
virgins haunted me. And every evening, when darkness came, I would
repeat to myself the words that sounded so beautiful and yet so
dismaying: "Watch therefore, for ye know neither the day nor the hour
wherein the Son of man cometh." If he should come to-night, was ever
my thought, I would be awakened by a noise as of the sound of rushing
waters, by the blare of the trumpet of the angel of the Lord announcing
the terrifying approach of the end of the world. And I could never go to
sleep until I had said a long prayer in which I commended myself to the
mercy of my Saviour.

I do not believe there was ever a little child who had a more sensitive
conscience than I; about everything I was so morbidly scrupulous that I
was often misunderstood by those who loved me best, a thing that caused
me the most poignant heartaches. I remember having been tormented
for days merely because in relating something I had not reported
it precisely as it had happened. And to such a point did I carry my
squeamishness of conscience that when I had finished with my recital or
statement I would murmur in a low voice, in the tone of one who tells
over his beads, these words: "After all, perhaps I do not remember just
exactly how it was." When I think of the thousand remorses and fears
which my trifling wrong doings caused me, and which from my sixth to
my eighth year cast a gloom over my childhood, I feel a sort of
retrospective depression.

At that period if any one asked me what I hoped to be in the future,
when a man, without hesitation I would answer: "I expect to be a