a mesh of subtle emotion. Many of the women began to cry softly. Fervent amens broke from some of the members. When the evangelist sat down, after a closing appeal which, in its way, was a masterpiece, an audible sigh of relieved tension passed like a wave over the audience.
After prayer the pastor made the usual request that, if any of those present wished to come out on the side of Christ, they would signify the wish by rising for a moment in their places. After a brief interval, a pale boy under the gallery rose, followed by an old man at the top of the church. A frightened, sweet-faced child of twelve got tremblingly upon her feet, and a dramatic thrill passed over the congregation when her mother suddenly stood up beside her. The evangelist’s “Thank God” was hearty and insistent.
David Bell looked almost imploringly at Mollie; but she kept her seat, with downcast eyes. Over in the big square “stone pew” he saw Eben bending forward, with his elbows on his knees, gazing frowningly at the floor.
“I’m a stumbling block to them both,” he thought bitterly.
A hymn was sung and prayer offered for those under conviction. Then testimonies were called for. The evangelist asked for them in tones which made it seem a personal request to every one in that building.
Many testimonies followed, each infused with the personality of the giver. Most of them were brief and stereotyped. Finally a pause ensued. The evangelist swept the pews with his kindling eyes and exclaimed, appealingly,
“Has EVERY Christian in this church tonight spoken a word for his Master?”
There were many who had not testified, but every eye in the building followed the pastor’s accusing glance to the Bell pew. Mollie crimsoned with shame. Mrs. Bell cowered visibly.
Although everybody looked thus at David Bell, nobody now expected him to testify. When he rose to his feet, a murmur of surprise passed over the audience, followed by a silence so complete as to be terrible. To David Bell it seemed to possess the awe of final judgment.
Twice he opened his lips, and tried vainly to speak. The third time he succeeded; but his voice sounded strangely in his own ears. He gripped the back of the pew before him with his knotty hands, and fixed his eyes unseeingly on the Christian Endeavor pledge that hung over the heads of the choir.
“Brethren and sisters,” he said hoarsely, “before I can say a word of Christian testimony here tonight I’ve got something to confess. It’s been lying hard and heavy on my conscience ever since these meetings begun. As long as I kept silence about it I couldn’t get up and bear witness for Christ. Many of you have expected me to do it. Maybe I’ve been a stumbling block to some of you. This season of revival has brought no blessing to me because of my sin, which I repented of, but tried to conceal. There has been a spiritual darkness over me.
“Friends and neighbors, I have always been held by you as an honest man. It was the shame of having you know I was not which has kept me back from open confession and testimony. Just afore these meetings commenced I come home from town one night and found that somebody had passed a counterfeit ten-dollar bill on me. Then Satan entered into me and possessed me. When Mrs. Rachel Lynde come next day, collecting for foreign missions, I give her that ten dollar bill. She never knowed the difference, and sent it away with the rest. But I knew I’d done a mean and sinful thing. I couldn’t drive it out of my thoughts. A few days afterwards I went down to Mrs. Rachel’s and give her ten good dollars for the fund. I told her I had come to the conclusion I ought to give more than ten dollars, out of my abundance, to the Lord. That was a lie. Mrs. Lynde thought I was a generous man, and I felt ashamed to look her in the face. But I’d done what I could to right the wrong, and I thought it would be all right. But it wasn’t. I’ve never known a minute’s peace of mind or conscience since. I tried to cheat the Lord, and then tried to patch it up by doing something that redounded to my worldly credit. When these meetings begun, and everybody expected me to testify, I couldn’t do it. It would have seemed like blasphemy. And I couldn’t endure the thought of telling what I’d done, either. I argued it all out a thousand times that I hadn’t done any real harm after all, but it was no use. I’ve been so wrapped up in my own brooding and misery that I didn’t realize I was inflicting suffering on those dear to me by my conduct, and, maybe, holding some of them back from the paths of salvation. But my eyes have been opened to this tonight, and the Lord has given me strength to confess my sin and glorify His holy name.”
The broken tones ceased, and David Bell sat down, wiping the great drops of perspiration from his brow. To a man of his training, and cast of thought, no ordeal could be more terrible than that through which he had just passed. But underneath the turmoil of his emotion he felt a great calm and peace, threaded with the exultation of a hard-won spiritual victory.
Over the church was a solemn hush. The evangelist’s “amen” was not spoken with his usual unctuous fervor, but very gently and reverently. In spite of his coarse fiber, he could appreciate the nobility behind such a confession as this, and the deeps of stern suffering it sounded.
Before the last prayer the pastor paused and looked around.
“Is there yet one,” he asked gently, “who wishes to be especially remembered in our concluding prayer?”
For a moment nobody moved. Then Mollie Bell stood up in the choir seat, and, down by the stove, Eben, his flushed, boyish face held high, rose sturdily to his feet in the midst of his companions.
“Thank God,” whispered Mary Bell.
“Amen,” said her husband huskily.
“Let us pray,” said Mr. Bentley.
ONLY A COMMON FELLOW
On my dearie’s wedding morning I wakened early and went to her room. Long and long ago she had made me promise that I would be the one to wake her on the morning of her wedding day.
“You were the first to take me in your arms when I came into the world, Aunt Rachel,” she had said, “and I want you to be the first to greet me on that wonderful day.”
But that was long ago, and now my heart foreboded that there would be no need of wakening her. And there was not. She was lying there awake, very quiet, with her hand under her cheek, and her big blue eyes fixed on the window, through which a pale, dull light was creeping in — a joyless light it was, and enough to make a body shiver. I felt more like weeping than rejoicing, and my heart took to aching when I saw her there so white and patient, more like a girl who was waiting for a winding-sheet than for a bridal veil. But she smiled brave-like, when I sat down on her bed and took her hand.
“You look as if you haven’t slept all night, dearie,” I said.
“I didn’t — not a great deal,” she answered me. “But the night didn’t seem long; no, it seemed too short. I was thinking of a great many things. What time is it, Aunt Rachel?”
“Five o’clock.”
“Then in six hours more—”
She suddenly sat up in her bed, her great, thick rope of brown hair falling over her white shoulders, and flung her arms about me, and burst into tears on my old breast. I petted and soothed her, and said not a word; and, after a while, she stopped crying; but she still sat with her head so that I couldn’t see her face.
“We
