ew! What more do you
want?'

And, then and there, it dawned upon the now earnest inquirer on the
village green as, at about the same time, it dawned upon young Hudson
Taylor in the hay-loft, that '_since the whole work was finished and the
whole debt paid upon the Cross, there was nothing for him to do but to
fall upon his knees and accept the Saviour_.' And there, under the elms,
the sentinel stars witnessing the great transaction, he kneeled in glad
thanksgiving and rested his soul for time and for eternity on '_the
Finished Work of Christ_.'

VIII

'_The Finished Work of Christ!_'

'_Tetelestai! Tetelestai!_'

'_It is finished!_'

It is not a sigh of relief at having reached the end of things. It is
the unutterable joy of the artist who, putting the last touches to the
picture that has engrossed him for so long, sees in it the realization
of all his dreams and can nowhere find room for improvement. Only once
in the world's history did a finishing touch bring a work to absolute
perfection; and on that day of days a single flaw would have shattered
the hope of the ages.

X

RODNEY STEELE'S TEXT

I

'As soon,' Dr. Chalmers used to say, 'as soon as a man comes to
understand that _GOD IS LOVE_, he is infallibly converted.' Mrs.
Florence L. Barclay wrote a book to show how Rodney Steele made that
momentous and transfiguring discovery. Rodney Steele--the hero of _The
Wall of Partition_--was a great traveler and a brilliant author. He had
wandered through India, Africa, Australia, Egypt, China and Japan, and
had written a novel colored with the local tints of each of the
countries he had visited. He was tall, strong, handsome, bronzed by many
suns, and--largely as a result of his literary successes--immensely
rich. But he was soured. Years ago he loved a beautiful girl. But an
unscrupulous and designing woman had gained his sweetheart's confidence
and had poisoned her heart by pouring into her ear the most abominable
scandals concerning him. She had returned his letters; and he, in the
vain hope of being able to forget, had abandoned himself to travel and
to literature. But, on whatever seas he sailed, and on whatever shores
he wandered, he nursed in his heart a dreadful hate--a hate of the woman
who had so cruelly intervened. And, cherishing that hate, his heart
became hard and bitter and sour. He lost faith in love, in womanhood, in
God, in everything. And his books reflected the cynicism of his so