le John's use. I went up to it, and my eye
fell upon these words:--

'If ye abide in Me, and My words abide in you, ye shall ask _what ye
will_, and _it shall be done unto you_.'

It seemed to me as if that verse was God's direct message to me that
night. I saw it as clearly and distinctly as if the page had been
lighted with electric light. 'Two conditions and a promise,' I said to
myself; 'if only the conditions are fulfilled, the promise is sure.'

What are the two conditions? (1) 'If ye abide in Me.' I asked myself if
I was fulfilling _that_ condition. I humbly hoped I was; for, oh, I
longed to be in Christ, saved by Him, more than I longed for anything
else in this world.

(2) 'If My words abide in you.' Was I fulfilling the
second condition? Again I humbly hoped that I was;
for I felt that if Christ told me to go to the North
Pole, or to an African desert, I would obey gladly. I
would go anywhere, I would do anything, to show Him
how grateful I was for His love to me.

Then might I claim the promise? I believed that I might.

I laid Polly's Bible on the bed. I knelt down beside little John. I put
my finger on the promise, and I prayed, as I had never prayed before,
for help in this time of need. I felt very strongly that all power was
in the hands of Christ, and that He who healed the sick on earth had
lost none of His power, now that He was exalted to the throne of God. I
besought Him to come into that room that very night, and to touch and
heal little John. And as I rose from my knees I felt that my prayer was
heard.

Polly had not returned, so I went to the top of the stairs and listened,
and I heard the sound of sobbing. I was thankful to hear it; the tears
had come at last, and they would relieve the poor, weary, over-strained
heart.

Little John was very quiet, so I crept downstairs. I found to my joy
that Polly had eaten most of the toast, and had drunk the tea, and now
she was sitting with her feet on the fender and her head in her hands,
sobbing as if her heart would break. What was it that had brought the
tears? She had not cried when the empty boat had come ashore; she had
shed no tear when the doctor's face had told her that he had no hope for
the child; what was it that had helped her to give way to the tears
which were such a relief to her? It was a very simple thing. She had
picked up from the floor a little toy, a tiny roughly-shaped boat, which
Duncan had made for the child, and which h