who have been women's men in the finest sense, have been the vital, conquering figures of history.

The other sort of women came into contact with him, too-women of less fortunate experience and reputation-whose illusions regarding men were gone, whose eyes saw piercingly, and whose lips were well-versed in phrases of contempt. As he taught in the Temple, one of them was hurried into his presence by a vulgar crowd of self-righteous Scribes and Pharisees. She had been taken in the act of infidelity, and according to the Mosaic law she could be stoned to death. Shrinking, embarrassed, yet with a look in which defiance and scorn were mingled too, she stood in his presence, and listened while their unclean lips played with the story of her shame. What thoughts must have raced through her mind-she who knew men and despised them all-and now was brought to judgment before a man? They were all alike, in her philosophy; what would this one do and say?

To her amazement, and the discomfiture of

her critics, he said nothing. He "stooped down, and with his finger wrote on the ground, as though he heard them not." They craned their necks to see what he wrote and continued to taunt him with their questions:

"Moses says stone her; what do you say?"

"Come now, if you are a prophet, here's a matter for you to decide."

"We found her in the house of So and So. She is guilty; what's your answer?"

All this time he had not once looked at the woman's face, and he did not look at her now. Slowly he "lifted himself up," and facing the evil-minded pack, said quietly:

"He that is without sin among you let him first cast a stone at her."

And again, says the narrative, he stooped down and wrote on the ground.

A painful silence fell upon the crowd; he continued writing. Writing what? Some have ventured the conjecture that he traced names of people and places that brought a blush of shame to men in that crowd. That may be so, but it

is more impressive to think that he wrote nothing of significance; that he merely busied his finger in the sand, not to add to her discomfiture by looking in her eyes. He wrote-and one by one the thick-lipped champions of morality drew their garments around them and slipped away, until the court was empty except for him and her. Then, and only then, his glance was lifted.

"Woman, where are those thine accusers? Hath no man condemned thee?" he inquired, as if in surprise.

Amazed at the sudden turn of affairs she could hardly find her voice.

"No man, Lord," she murmured.

"Neither do I condemn thee," he answered simply. "Go, and sin no more."

From the moment when the noisy vulgar throng had broken in upon him, he was complete master of the situation. Those were men not easily abashed, but they slunk out of his presence without waiting for his command. And she, who knew men so much more truly than men ever know each other, felt his mastery,

responded to his power, and spoke to him reverently as "Lord."

All his days were spent in the open air-this is the third outstanding testimony to his strength. On the Sabbath he was in the synagogue because that was where the people were gathered; but by far the greater part of his teaching was done on the shores of his lake, or in the cool recesses of the hills. He walked constantly from village to village; his face was tanned by the sun and wind. Even at night he slept outdoors, when he could-turning his back on the hot walls of the city and slipping away into the healthful freshness of the Mount of Olives. He was the type of outdoor man whom our modern thought most admires; and the vigorous activities of his days gave his nerves the strength of steel.

He stepped into a sailboat with his disciples late one afternoon, and, being very tired, lay down in the stern and was almost immediately asleep. The clouds grew thicker and the surface of the lake which had been quiet a few

minutes before, was broken into sudden waves. The little boat dived and tossed, and still he slept. His disciples had grown up on the shores of that lake; they were fishermen, accustomed to its moods and not easily frightened. But they had never been out in such a storm as this. It grew fiercer; water began to come in over the side, every moment seemed to threaten destruction. At last they could stand the strain no longer; they went to the stern and woke him.

He rose without the slightest suggestion of hurry or alarm. A quick glance was enough to give him a full understanding of the situation. He issued a few quiet orders and presently the menaced boat swung round into the smoother waters of safety. Call it a miracle or not-the fact remains that it is one of the finest examples of self-control in all human history. Napoleon said that he had met few men with courage of the "two o'clock in the morning variety." Many men can be brave in the warmth of the sun and amid the heartening plaudits of the crowd; but to be wakened suddenly out of sound sleep, and