little girl--father's dear little girl. I am going to Jesus.
I shall be there in a little while. I shall tell him that I tried to
have you come!"

Oh, blessed father! How hard he had tried in his feebleness and weakness
to teach her the way! How sure he had seemed to feel that she would
follow him! And how had she wandered! How far away she was! Oh, blessed
Spirit of God, to seek after her all these years, through all the weak
and foolish mazes of doubt, and indifference, and declared
unbelief--still coming with her down to this afternoon at Chautauqua,
and there renewing to her her father's parting word.

She had often and often thought of these words of her father's. In a
sense, they had been ever present with her. Just why they should come at
this time, bringing such a sense of certainty about them to her very
soul that all this was truth, God's solemn, _real_, unchangeable truth,
and force this conviction upon her in such a way that she was moved to
say, "Whereas I _was_ blind, now I see," I can not tell.

Why Mr. Hazard was used as the instrument of such a revelation of God to
her I can not tell. Perhaps he had prayed that his work at Chautauqua
that rainy afternoon might, in some way, be blessed to the help of some
struggling soul. Perhaps this was the answer to his prayer--unheard,
unseen by him, as many an answer to our pleading is, and yet the answer
as surely comes. Who can tell how this may be. I do not know. I know
this, that Marion's heart gave a great sobbing cry, as it said:

"Oh, father, father! if your God, if your Christ, will help me, I
will--I will _try_ to come."

It was her way of repeating the old cry, "Lord, I believe, help thou
mine unbelief." And I do know that it is written, "Blessed are the dead
which die in the Lord from henceforth: Yea, saith the Spirit, that they
may rest from their labors; and their works do follow them." It was
fifteen years that the weary father had been resting from his labors,
and here were his works following him.

I have heard that Mr. Hazard said, as he folded his papers and came down
from the stand that afternoon, "It was useless to try to talk in such a
rain, with the prospect of more every minute. The people could not
listen. It would have been better to have adjourned. Nothing was
accomplished." Much _he_ knew about it, or will know until the day when
the secrets of all hearts shall be revealed!

CHAPTER XXVII.

UNFINISHED MUSIC.

Meantime,