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 It is not the people who shine in Society, but the people who brighten up the back parlour; not the people who are charming when they are out, but the people who are charming when they are in, that are good to live with. It is not the brilliant men and women, but the simple, strong, restful men and women, that make the best travelling companions for the road of Life. The men and women who will only laugh as they put up the umbrella when the rain begins to fall, who will trudge along cheerfully through the mud and over the stony places,—the comrades who will lay their firm hand on ours and strengthen us when the way is dark, and we are growing weak,—the evergreen men and women, who, like the holly, are at their brightest and best when the blast blows chilliest—the stanch men and women!

It is a grand thing this stanchness. It is the difference between a dog and a sheep—between a man and an oyster.

Women, as a rule, are stancher than men. There are women that you feel you could rely upon to the death. But very few men indeed have this dog-like virtue. Men, taking them generally, are more like cats. You may live with them and call them yours for twenty years, but you can never feel quite sure of them. You never know exactly what they are thinking of. You never feel easy in your mind as to the result of the next-door neighbour's laying down a Brussels carpet in his kitchen.

We have no school for the turning-out of stanch men in this nineteenth century. In the old, earnest times, War made men stanch and true to each other. We have learnt up a good many glib phrases about the wickedness of war, and we thank God that we live in these peaceful, trading times, wherein we can—and do—devote the