ar fellow," said the preacher, "the devil has gone out of you. You
are free now because you are the slave of Christ. Begin your service to
him by praising God!"

Toyner stayed a week longer in the place, lodging with the young
preacher. Day and night they were close together. A change had come to
Toyner. It was a miracle. The young preacher believed in such miracles,
and because he believed he saw them often.

Toyner trembled and hoped, and at length he too believed. He believed
that as long as he willingly obeyed God his old habits would not triumph
over him. The physical health which so often comes like a flood and
replaces disease at the shrines of idol temples, of Romish saints, or,
at the many Protestant homes for faith-healing, had undoubtedly come to
Bart Toyner. The stomach that had been inflamed and almost useless, now
produced in him a regular appetite for simple nourishing food. The
craving for strong drink had passed away, and with his whole mind and
heart he threw himself into such service as he believed to be acceptable
to God and the condition upon which he held his health and his freedom.
At the end of the week Toyner went home to face the old life again with
no safe-guard but the new inward strength. No one there believed in his
reformation. He had lost money for his father in his last debauch; the
man who was virtually a partner would not trust him again. He had a
nominal business of his own, an agency which he had heretofore
neglected, and now he worked hard, living frugally, and for the first
time in his life earned his own living. The rules of conduct which the
preacher had laid down for him were simple and broad. He was to see God
in everything, accepting all events joyfully from His hand; he was so to
preach Him in life and word that others would love Him; he was to do all
his work as unto a God who beheld and cared for the minutest things of
earth; he was to abstain, not only from all sin, but from all things
that might lead to evil. At first he saw no contradiction in this rule
of life; it seemed a plain path, and he walked, nay ran, upon it for a
long distance.

Between Toyner and his old friends the change of his life and thoughts
had made the widest breach. That outward show of companionship remained
was due only to patient persistence on his part and the endurance of the
pain and shame of being in society where he was not wanted and where he
felt nothing congenial. There was a Scotch minis