father, in his turn, read: "Did not our hearts burn within us while he talked with us by the way, and while he opened to us the Scriptures?" Father paused after the word burn; he could not finish without waiting to regain his composure. The words seemed to burn in his heart. The few sacred moments which we daily spent at the altar of prayer were, in some sense, the most precious of our lives-bright oases of busy and sometimes trying days. Our dear parents loved the family altar so much, that in time it became very sweet to us all. Mother was fluent and gifted in prayer, both in Welsh and English, and she never shrank from this duty when occasion required.
Singing was one of the most interesting parts of our family worship. Frequently, after returning from church, Sabbath evening, we would gather around the dear old fireside and have a season of song together, one after another proposing favorite hymns, or those that suited their feelings best at the time. Father often would say, "Let us sing 'Mary to the Savior's tomb,' or O fryniau Caersalem ceir gweled;" and mother would call for "Come thou fount of every blessing," and "His loving kindness, O, how great." These were precious hours, which we love now to recall. Indeed, they were doubly prized, as father was so fully occupied with public duties and his labors in the study, that the enjoyment of his company, all to ourselves, was a rich treat.
He was seldom idle. His time seemed consecrated to God. If, by the unexpected arrival of a brother minister, he was relieved from preaching in his own pulpit on a Sabbath, his thoughts would turn to some
