business was bad from beginning to end, and that now, after
he had such proofs among his own kin that death followed in its wake,
he should forever abandon it. For a while it seemed as though his proud
heart would yield, but there were tremendous influences on the other
side. There was the love of his free and easy life which must be put in
the scale. If he changed about he must endure the scoffs and reproaches
of his former companions. Added to these was the awful tug of the
habits and inclinations of his present life, and beyond all this was
the personal temptation of the evil one whispering in his soul not to
yield. If he did yield, said the tempter, he would soon fall away, and
that would be worse than not to start at all.

Thus the crucial battle of his life was fought while Wiles sat in that
little church. Such a struggle comes into many a life. Angels must look
upon it with the deepest interest and attention. The crisis may arrive
at church or at home, on the high sea or on the land, in a storied
mansion or in a little cottage, at the midnight hour or in the open
day--the place or time counts for little, but the result is as wide as
eternity.

This hour was propitious for Sam Wiles. A proper choice would have
revolutionized his character, would have gladdened the angels in
heaven, and written his name deep in the "Book of Life." But alas!
alas! before the sermon was ended he had resisted God's Holy Spirit,
and, instead of one devil, seven devils had entered into his soul. A
hard expression spread over his face, his eyes flashed with a dangerous
fire, and he cast a look of defiance and contempt upon the speaker that
(so subtle, strong, and swift are the laws of mind) Very, seeing it,
would have been confused and perhaps overcome in his discourse if the
shield of Almighty God had not protected him.

As for Zibe Turner, the monster dwarf, the services had no more effect
for good upon him than a strong fortress would be affected by shooting
white beans at it. When his favorite business, illicit distilling, was
denounced by Very, the dwarf's wrath grew so hot that he could not
refrain from muttering under his breath: "I wish I could drown you uns
and all yer pious hypercrits in whisky. Dat's my holt."

As the last hymn was being sung Sam Wiles left the church and walked
out into the moonlight. He was joined by Turner and a few more of the
clan. For a few minutes they held a whispered conversation, and then
separa