-that it was not crying "Lord, Lord" and playing the
hypocrite--thrilled him. And then the sense of his sinning came over
him, but only with joy too, because he felt he could show others how
foolish they were. The clock stopped ticking; the chimes were silent,
and he lay unconscious of his body, with his spirit bathed in some new
essence that he did not understand and did not try to understand.
Finally he rose and went to his organ and turned on the motor, and put
his hands to the keys. As he played the hymn to the "Evening Star,"
John Barclay looked up and saw his mother standing upon the stair with
her fine old face bathed in tears. And then at last--

Tears? Tears for Mr. Barclay? All these months there have been no
tears for him--none, except miserable little corroding tears of rage
and shame. But now there are tears for Mr. Barclay, large, man's size,
soul-healing tears--tears of repentance; not for the rich Mr.
Barclay, the proud Mr. Barclay, the powerful, man-hating, God-defying
Mr. Barclay of Sycamore Ridge, but for John Barclay, a contrite man,
the humblest in all the kingdom.

And as John Barclay let his soul rise with the swelling music, he felt
the solace of a great peace in his heart; he turned his wet face
upward and cried, "Oh, mother, mother, I feel like a child!" Then Mary
Barclay knew that her son had let Him in, knew in her own heart all
the joy there is in heaven over one sinner that repenteth.

CHAPTER XXIX

It is written in the Book that holds the wisdom of our race that one
who is reborn into the Kingdom of God, enters as a little child. It is
there in black and white, yet few people get the idea into their
consciousnesses. They expect regeneration to produce an upright man.
God knows better than that. And we should know better too when it is
written down for us. And so you good people who expect to see John
Barclay turn rightabout face on the habits of a lifetime are to be
disappointed. For a little child stumbles and falls and goes the wrong
way many times before it learns the way of life. There came days after
that summer night of 1904, when John Barclay fell--days when he would
sneak into the stenographers' room in his office in the City and tear
up some letter he had dictated, when he would send a telegram
annulling an order, when he would find himself cheating and gouging
his competitors or his business associates,--even days when he had
not the moral courage to retrace his steps