IT was Sunday night, and in a seaport town a congregation was just dispersing, when the preacher took note of a little girl, who was lingering behind, her eyes being fixed upon him with a wistful expression. He spoke to her.
“How old are you, my dear?”
“I am just seven, sir.”
She turned, as if to go away; then, making a sudden effort, said earnestly— “Oh, sir, everyone says my father is dying, and I am sure he is very ill, and no one tells him about his soul.”
There was a look of great distress upon the child’s face. Into her young heart some knowledge of the preciousness of the soul had entered, and again she repeated her sad cry, “My papa is dying, and no one tells him about his soul.”
“Do you think he would let me come and see him, my child?” said the aged evangelist, deeply touched.
“No, sir,” replied the child, in a mournful but decided tone; “I am sure he would not see you.”
“Well, my dear, you must go home—” “Yes, sir,” said the little girl, sadly, “I know I must.”
“You must go home, and pray to God, who hears every word you say, and knows every wish of your heart; ask God, our Father, with whom nothing is impossible, to make your dear father willing to see me; I will pray too, and the answer will come in the best way, and at the best time.”
The little girl’s face brightened as she said goodbye, adding, “I won’t forget.”
Asking a few friends to remain, Mr. S. told them briefly the child’s story, and they joined him in prayer that God would make a way for His own message of life and peace to be brought home to the dying father.
In the course of the evening a message came to Mr. S. that, if he would call at ten o’clock the next morning, Mr. E. would be happy to see him. He afterward learned that when his little daughter, in her simple, loving way, had said, “Papa, there was a gentleman preaching in the great hall tonight, and he was so sorry when I told him you were ill, and he said he wished he might come and see you. May he come, papa?” the father had at once answered, “Oh, yes, by all means, let him come if he likes.”
Next morning at the appointed time Mr. S. called, but was asked to wait in the drawing room, as the doctor was paying his visit. Presently he heard a sound of laughter, broken by a hollow cough; the patient was accompanying his physician to the top of the stairs, and wishing him good morning. Through the open door Mr. S. could see the worn, tottering figure, and could even hear the rapid, painful breathing of the sick man, and, as he turned to enter the drawing room, his face wore a haggard, lifeless look, which, accompanied by the terrible cough, told its own tale.
Laughing loudly, and rubbing his hands, Mr. E. came to greet his visitor. “The doctor tells me my lungs are as sound as his own,” he said. “There’s nothing the matter with me but what a little time and change will soon set right” But even as he spoke his voice was broken by the relentless cough, and he sank breathless upon a chair. “My dear sir,” said Mr. S., too much shocked to wait for chosen words in which to set his case before him, “I implore you, let no one deceive you. You are a dying man: time will, indeed, bring a change for you, but it will be the great change of death.” “I believe you are right, sir,” said Mr. E., burying his face in his hands; “those are terrible words—startling words—a mighty change, indeed, from life to death; but you have had the courage to tell me the truth, and I thank you.” Ah! thought Mr. S., I would fain tell him more; I would fain show him, God clothing my feeble words with His own power, how this mighty change, which is surely coming, may be a change from death to life through Him who has abolished death and brought life and incorruptibility to light by His gospel. “Let me read you a few verses from God’s word,” said he. Taking his Bible from his pocket, he read the well-known verse, “‘God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life.’ The love of God—,” he continued, but just then Mr. E. looked up. “I know nothing of those things,” he said, hurriedly; “I never went to church but twice in my life. They took me there when I was a baby to be christened, and I went to be married. I know nothing of religion.”
Not noticing his sad interruption, Mr. S. continued in simple, earnest words to speak of God’s love in the gift of His Son. Then, fearful of exhausting the little strength of the sick man, he took his leave, not without permission, readily granted, to renew his visit.
Each morning during that week found the aged evangelist at Mr. E.’s door, glad in the thought that he was about to speak the life-giving word to ears which God Himself had opened to receive it. Day by day, as simply as a little child would receive the word of its father, did Mr. E. drink in the message of the love of God even to him, who until this last hour of his mortal life had never thought of Him. Monday morning came, and at the usual time the invalid came to greet his visitor. Tottering into the room, he fell upon the couch, and had just strength to whisper, “I believe in the Lord Jesus Christ—and I am going—to be with Him—forever,” and he was gone—the mighty change had come, but it was a change, not from life to death, but from death to life, a “stepping out upon the platform of eternal life.”
C. C. S.