[In response to a request by The Independent, following the unfounded statements as to her illness, Mrs. Eddy has been good enough to send us this article, which we have received in her own handwriting, and which shows none of that tremulous unevenness which often appears in the chirography of a person of her age, she being in her eighty-sixth year. We herewith reprint her accompanying letter, reproduced about one-third. This is the first statement which Mrs. Eddy has made as to recent events, and it is probably the only one she will make.—.]
God hath thrust in the sickle, and He is separating the tares from the wheat. This hour is molten in the furnace of Soul. Its harvest song is world-wide, world-known, world-great. The vine is bringing forth its fruit; the beams of right have healing in their light.
The windows of heaven are sending forth their rays of reality—even Christian Science, pouring out blessing for cursing, and rehearsing: "I will rebuke the devourer for your sakes, and he shall not destroy the fruits of your ground." "Prove me now herewith, saith the Lord of Hosts, if I will not open you the windows of heaven, and pour you out a blessing, that there shall not be room enough to receive it."
