ou may have them if you want them."

Eleanor struggled with herself, for her self-possession was endangered,
and she was angry at herself for being such a fool; but she could not
help it; yet she would not let her agitation come any more to the
surface. She waited for clearness of voice, and then could not forbear
the question,

"How, Mr. Rhys?"

"Jesus said, 'If any man thirst, let him come unto me and drink.' There
is all fulness in him. Go to him for light--go to him for strength--go
to him for forgiveness, for healing, for sanctification. 'Whosoever
will, let him take of the water of life freely.'"

"'Go to him?'" repeated Eleanor vaguely.

"Ask him."

Ask _Him!_ It was such a far-off, strange idea to her a heart, there
seemed such a universe of distance between, Eleanor's face grew visibly
shadowed with the thought. _She?_ She could not. She did not know how.
She was silent a little while. The subject was getting unmanageable.

"I never had anybody talk to me so before, Mr. Rhys," she said,
thinking to let it pass.

"Perhaps you never will again," he said. "Hear it now. The Lord Jesus
is not far off--as you think--he is very near; he can hear the faintest
whisper of a petition that you send to him. It is his message I bring
you to-day--a message to _you_. I am his servant, and he has given me
this charge for you to-day--to tell you that he loves you--that he has
given his life for yours--and that he calls Eleanor Powle to give him
her heart, and then to give him her life, in all the obedience his
service may require."

Eleanor felt her heart strangely bowed, subdued, bent to his words. "I
will"--was the secret language of her thoughts--"but I must not let
this man see all I am feeling, if I can help it." She held herself
still, looking out of the window, where the rain fell in torrents yet,
though the thunder and the lightning were no longer near. So did he; he
added no more to his last words, and a silence lasted in the old ruined
window as if its chance occupants were gone again. As the silence
lasted, Eleanor felt it grow awkward. She was at a loss how to break
it. It was broken for her then.

"What will you do, Miss Powle?"

"I will think about it"--she answered, startled and hesitating.

"How long, before you decide?"

"How can I tell?" she said.

"You are shrinking from a decision already formed. The answer is given
in your secret thoughts, and something is rising up in the midst of
them to