Such a sensation Sunday's preacher
          made.
     "Christian!" he cried, "what is your stock-
          in-trade?
     Alas! Too often nil. No time to pray;
     No interview with Christ from day to day,
     A hurried prayer, maybe, just gabbled
          through;
     A random text—for any one will do."
     Then gently, lovingly, with look intense,
     He leaned towards us—
     "Is this common sense?
     No person in his rightful mind will try
     To run his business so, lest by-and-by
     The thing collapses, smirching his good
          name,
     And he, insolvent, face the world with
     shame."

     I heard it all; and something inly said
     That all was true. The daily toil and press
     Had crowded out my hopes of holiness.
     Still, my old self rose, reasoning:
     How can you,
     With strenuous work to do—
     Real slogging work—say, how can you
          keep pace
     With leisured folks? Why, you could
          grow in grace
     If you had time . . . the daily Interview
     Was never meant for those who wash and
          bake.

     But yet a small Voice whispered:
     "For My sake
     Keep tryst with Me!
     There are so many minutes in a day,
     So spare Me ten.
     It shall be proven, then,
     Ten minutes set apart can well repay
     You shall accomplish more
     If you will shut your door
     For ten short minutes just to watch and
          pray."

     "Lord, if I do
     Set ten apart for You"
     (I dared, yes dared, to reason thus with
          Him)
     "The baker's sure to come;
     Or Jane will call
     To say some visitor is in the hall;
     Or I shall smell the porridge burning, yes,
     And run to stop it in my hastiness.
     There's not ten minutes, Lord, in all the
          day
     I can be sure of peace in which to watch
          and pray."

     But all that night,
     With calm insistent might,
     That gentle Voice spake softly, lovingly—
     "Keep tryst with Me!
     You have devised a dozen different ways
     Of getting easy meals on washing days;
     You spend much anxious thought on
          hopeless socks;
     On moving ironmould from tiny frocks;
     'Twas you who found
     A way to make the sugar lumps go round;
     You, who invented ways and means of
          making
     Nice spicy buns for tea, hot from the baking,
     When margarine was short . . . and can-
          not