he same as though I had it in my hand? It is a poor
little illustration, Ruthie, but it is true that God has been calling
you all your life, and if you have all the time been saying 'No,' up to
that moment when you said solemnly, meaning it with all your heart, 'I
will,' I tell you it makes a difference."

I can not describe to you how strangely all this sounded to Ruthie. Up
to this moment she had not realized in the least that the Lord was
asking her simply for a decision, and that having solemnly given it,
the work, so far as _she_ was concerned, was done, and the new relations
instantly commenced. She thought it over--that sudden calming of
heart--that sense of resolve--of determination, so strong, and yet so
quiet. She remembered what a strange day it had been. How she had tried
to keep before her mind the horror of the night, and had not been able.

She went on talking with Flossy, telling her about Charlie Flint,
noticing the happy tears that glistened in Flossy's eyes as she received
her message, taking in the murmured words, "To think that Christ would
honor such a feeble little witnessing as that!" and realizing even then
that it would be very blessed to have one say to her, "You have been the
means of leading me to think about this thing." Why should _she_ care,
though, whether people thought about this thing or not? Yesterday she
didn't. During all the talk she kept up this little undertone of
thought, this running commentary on her sudden change of views and
feelings, and wondered, and _wondered_, could it be possible that she
was utterly changed? And yet, when she came to think of it, wasn't she?
Didn't she love Christ? And then it struck her as the strangest thing
in the world _not_ to love him. How could any one be so devoid of heart
as that? Why, a mere man, to have done one-half of what Christ had done
for her, would have received undying love and service.

As they walked they neared the stand, and there came just at that moment
a burst of music, one of those strange, thrilling tunes such as none but
the African race ever sing. The words were familiar, and yet to Ruth
they were new:

"There is a fountain filled with blood,
Drawn from Immanuel's veins,
And sinners, plunged beneath that flood.
Lose all their guilty stains."

A sinner! Was _she_, Ruth Erskine, a sinner? Yesterday she had not liked
it to be called a prodigal. But to-day, oh yes. Was there a greater
sinner to be fo