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TO the end of his life Hugh Russell was to remember that wonderful Sunday as though it were a dream that had begun in a miracle and gradually unfolded, delight succeeding delight, until the whole pattern was of a beauty that stamped itself forever on his heart.

Perhaps there was something in the sharp contrast of the bleak desolation of the day before, ending in a bewilderment of dread at some terrible prospect that was beyond his understanding. Just as in after years he loved to travel in memory through every moment of the dreamSunday, so he could never bear to recall his father's face as he had seen it on Saturday night, stamped with fear and despair. No hurt that came later was ever quite so bad as that. Never again was he to know the suffering of complete helplessness as he had feit it when he crept away to hide himself under his blanket.

He was only a little boy, and sleep had restored him, ending with the golden morning that brought the miracle of the Circus to his very touch. Small wonder that yester-